At Games Headquarters
by hayleighann
Summary: Follow Haymitch as he mentors Katniss and Peeta in the 74th Hunger Games, from strange mentor alliances to possible rebellion partners. Told through the eyes of a sponsorship assistant.
1. Upended

"Sir, I've got you're bottle—"

Mr. Abernathy cuts me off as he strides past me, banging through the wide, clear double doors of Level 12. He leaves me standing in the lobby, holding a bottle of expensive white wine awkwardly in the air as the click of the glass doors curtly dismisses my usual duties. Although anything usual about the Games have gone out the door long before the surly mentor strode in.

The scenery of the Games Headquarters hasn't changed since I was first forced into the job. Tasteful plush armchairs and sofas are scattered around the spacious entrance to the mentor's lair, an arrangement placed by expert hands to attract maximum numbers of sponsors. Camera crew stations line the exterior of the room along with desk-and-vanity-mirror combinations equipped with professional makeup artists and mountains of beauty products designed to make even the plainest citizen shine bright for the camera. Sparkling statues of past victors strike elaborate poses. The glass walls of the twelfth floor tower over the Capitol, allowing a three-sixty panorama of the chaos churning underneath me.

Only this year the packed crowd of screaming sponsors and television crews that have populated the floors beneath me in the past have now spilled out onto our floor. Candy-colored hair and too-stretched smiles bob past in a constant parade of the well-to-do. Shouts and laughter surround me as sponsors squeeze into spaces long left untouched. All their voices mingle together into a single thought, bouncing around the room. Katniss and Peeta. Peeta and Katniss. They all want to be the first in line to contribute to the best show they will see in years.

The elevator coasts silently onto the twelfth floor as what is surely yet another batch of sponsors pour out. The noise continues for a moment as the newly-arrived, brightly-dressed citizens sweep seamlessly into the horde of cameras and sponsors, then dies down as three pairs of simple shoes squeak onto the shimmering floor. As the last of the rainbow parade of citizens moves away from the elevator, three under-dressed mentors take in the scene in front of them. Surely they are wondering how they found themselves in a pact with a District 12 tribute.

Sponsors trip over themselves to shake hands with the past victors, offer them food and wine. The District 4 victor winks and smiles seductively at the crowd forming around them, but they are mentors this year. They have no time for small talk and endless admiration. I immediately recognize Braz, the middle-aged District 2 victor who made his debut into the Capitol as the winner of a searing-hot desert Games. My mother calls herself his biggest fan, always trying to buy her way into a night with the victor as soon as she catches wind of his arrival into the Capitol. Of course, a measly cook's assistant's wage is hardly enough to win over a victor celebrated for his swordsmanship in the arena. I can just hear my mother now. "_It doesn't hurt to try, eh Maren?"_ she'd say, grinning as she rewatches Braz kill a record number of tributes in the first fifteen minutes of his Games.

Braz leads the Districts 1 and 4 mentors, who I now recognize as younger victors from my time, to the swinging glass doors Mr. Abernathy has just gone through. I avert my eyes, remembering what happened the last time I unknowingly addressed a Capitol official. The scar along my brow bone still gives out a throb of pain every time I see Peacekeeper Chief Justus Jet on my television screen.

"Excuse me, you?—I'm sorry, I can't quite read your nametag…"

"Pardon?" I look up to meet the gaze of Satin Korvin, who won her Games just four years before. I gulp as I remember her crippling hand-to-hand combat skills and graceful agility. It's astonishing that she doesn't exhibit the same cool distance from the underprivileged as the rest of her kind. After all, she is from District 1, and she's definitely a sought after prize in the Capitol. Instead, her casual stance and direct glance make her all the more deadly.

"Has Haymitch even shown up yet? You can get him for us, yes?"

"I—Of course, Ms." Gratefully, I turn toward the doors and stumble through. The casualness the younger victors exude puts me on edge. It feels unnatural, out of place in this world full of rules.

The doors click shut behind me and I'm enveloped in welcoming silence. Large computers with dizzying amounts of buttons dimly light the low-ceilinged room. I follow the scent of liquor until I find Mr. Abernathy slumped in a feather-stuffed chair, staring intently at the wall-sized screen across from us. He clicks a button and the picture zooms in on a light forest with a slow moving stream cutting through it. He zooms in further until the screen is filled with a white bunny hopping slowly through the pine needles.

"Easy pickings," he grumbles roughly in acknowledgement of my presence. His eyes don't stray from the rabbit.

"Sir, Peeta's District allies are here. They want to see you."

"Well, can't keep those sorry suckers waiting, now can I?" Mr. Abernathy extricates himself from the sagging chair and crosses to the widescreen. "It almost makes you think I've got hope yet," he says gruffly as he taps the screen. The picture zooms out until the whole of the 74th Hunger Games arena fills the wall. He turns to me, more lucid than I've seen him in a while. "Keep the wine bottle by the hovercraft control." And he was gone.

I move closer to the video rolling on the screen. The camera pans across a wide field of grain ringing a swampy pool of murky water. To the left, Capitol workers inspect the ground explosives and add the last finishing pieces to the Cornucopia. Menacing spears, shiny knives, and a finely-tuned bow and arrow are shifted around in the gleaming sun.

"Placing any bets this year?"

Startled, I turn to find Finnick Odair, District 4 mentor, sauntering slowly around the control room. He stops to trace his pinky around an open wine bottle standing on the sink counter in District 12's tiny kitchen area.

"No, sir."

"What, and miss out on all the fun?" Mr. Finnick flashes me a wide grin, but in the dim lighting of the control room the effect is somewhat chilling. Again, the victor's casual demeanor throws me off guard. How can I joke with someone on such a high pedestal?

"I should go see if Mr. Braz or Ms. Satin are in need of anything." I cast my eyes downward and hurry from the room, but not before I hear Mr. Finnick pour the bottle of liquor down the drain.


	2. Old Flames

I don't know why Mr. Finnick did it. After Mr. Abernathy dismissed me, I came back to find every bottle upended, their contents drained. Maybe he wanted his own tributes to win, for Mr. Abernathy to neglect his while he dealt with the first symptoms of withdrawal. But there was always more wine in the Capitol. What was his angle? Perhaps I should stop worrying. After all, nobody has come to drag me away after this inconvenience. Mr. Abernathy hasn't even said a word to me about his liquor. It's best if I just focus on my duties as a sponsorship assistant and make sure nothing is muddled up further.

I stand attentive with a stack of sponsor forms at hand as Mr. Abernathy makes his rounds with the wealthy Capitol residents. It's amazing the transformation that has taken place on Level 12. For the first time in years, Mr. Abernathy is conscious and actually _working_ before the Games Breakfast, the ceremonial send-off of the tributes. This time last year, he was passed out in the control room, his suit sleeves unrolled and collar askew. One lonely sponsor lingered near the entrance before hurriedly punching the retrieve button for the elevator. Now, he stands tall, exuding a natural charisma he has been suppressing with wine and whiskey for so long. He has even been styled with a pair of gold-trimmed reading glasses, giving him a polished, intellectual air.

"Oh, Haymitch, it is so splendid to see you again after all this time! Why, I remember the year I came up to sponsor yourself. Oh, a handsome young man you were. But never mind that, it seems you've given us a fine pair of tributes this year." A lavishly dressed woman places her arms around Mr. Abernathy as he smiles good-naturedly. Even if my Head Mentor's happiness may be a tad forced, the woman doesn't notice. Her unwrinkled skin stays smooth and the colossal grin never leaves her face.

"Yes, yes. They're showstoppers, these two are. My heartbreaker and her star-crossed lover."

"But do you think…?" The old woman seems on the verge of tears. "There's so much room for loss!"

" They'll stick around the arena long enough for a little romance to enfold."

"Haymitch! Oh, do you really think they'll last so long? Maybe if I contribute a little more, that would help them?"

"I'm sure of it. Katniss, now I can't tell you her secret weapon, but when she goes for it, she'll knock the other tributes out of the water. And you can bet Peeta will keep himself around as long as she's with him. Just a few supplies and they have the competition in the bag."

"It sounds like quite a show! Where do I sign?"

Mr. Abernathy points to me and I hand her a slip of electronic paper asking for the contribution amount and Capitol Bank number of authenticity. I watch as she pens an enormous amount of zeroes compared to my measly salary. With the finishing flourish of her signature, the information races to the city's bank, adding the sponsor's donation to the growing amount under District 12's special Games Account. With all the sponsors Mr. Abernathy has had sign our slips, he could give his tributes the moon and they could afford it.

"My thanks greatly, Mrs. Herrias. You're helping to put on the best show in years."

With a final exchanging of bows, the woman leaves and wanders over to a huddle of expensively dressed Capitol residents. They squeal and giggle as they gather around our complimentary hand-held bank monitor, which keeps a running comparison of all the sponsor money gone to each District. I don't have to check to know that District 12 is ahead for the first time in what is probably forever.

"What a spectacle, eh? You're really working for your money this year, boy." Mr. Abernathy glances distractedly in my direction as he tugs at his flame-adorned tie.

"Yes, sir," I say. My Head Mentor has been tugging at his collar and rearranging the fit of his clothes ever since Peeta's District allies came to talk to him. I can't be sure that our mentor allies are the ones who set him so on edge; after all, this is the first time I've seen Mr. Abernathy take such initiative on the tributes. From the way he's jumping hoops for the sponsors, I suspect he's trying hard not to care so much for the two. And it's not working.

It's only, our District allies are acting so strangely this Games. I've only ever been here long enough to see 1, 2, and 4 mentors ally just with themselves. They never come up to talk the way the other Districts do; they stay on the lower levels and collect sponsors as they spill onto their floors. From all the exclusiveness, I would have expected such snobbery. High ranking officials always garner the utmost respect. Instead, these victors continue to chat with us as equals.

As I walked out of the control room following Mr. Finnick's odd behavior, I came across Mr. Abernathy chuckling with Braz and Ms. Satin.

"And he says to me, he says, 'Haymitch, how can you get me in with those Careers if you walk around roaring drunk all the time? What kind of victor takes _that_ seriously?'"

The other mentors all laugh as Mr. Abernathy continues to mimic his tribute.

"It was a tough choice, but who can resist such a charming rebel as you?" Braz claps Mr. Abernathy on the back, but Mr. Abernathy immediately stiffens as he catches sight of me.

Mr. Abernathy addresses me. "Maren, what's holding Finnick?"

"Yes, where is the man who convinced us to take on Peeta?" Ms. Satin's voice is teasing, but her eyes find mine and I'm surprised by the intensity in her gaze. I immediately drop my own eyes to the floor.

"For someone who needed all the help she could get from District 9 allies in her own Games, you would think you'd be more up for a change in pact," Mr. Finnick lilts from behind me.

"Finnick—" Mr. Abernathy touches Mr. Finnick's wrist slightly.

"Only joking, of course," Mr. Finnick purrs as he siddles up close to Ms. Satin. She playfully shoves him away, but her eyes flash as she looks to me again. She still wants to know where Mr. Finnick was.

I struggle for a moment. My primary concern should be assisting the mentors in any way possible, but spending so many years with Mr. Abernathy has left me with some kind of loose loyalty. I guess even eight years with an unconscious drunkard forms some kind of attachments, because I find myself saying, "Mr. Finnick was only studying the arena on our wall screen."

"Really now?" Ms. Satin stares intently at Mr. Finnick, but he takes no notice.

"Come on now, Maren! We're going to be spending lots of time together, why don't we drop the formalities? Mr. always makes me feel so old!"

"Alright, sir. Finnick." The casualness feels so wrong under the roof of the Games Headquarters. I quickly find forms to be stacked just out of eavesdropping range of the mentors. They murmur together for a few more minutes until the three break away from Mr. Abernathy and head towards the elevator.

"See you at the Breakfast, Haymitch!" Finnick calls as he steps inside the crystal walls after Braz.

"Yes. See you," Ms. Satin says as the doors slide closed noiselessly in front of her.

Mr. Abernathy tugs at his tie, and the flame designs at his neck show for a moment before his collar settles down over it again.


	3. Breakfast for Champions

The clock turns to nine on the dot as I take my place with the other sponsorship assistants in the Games Headquarter's cavernous dining area. There aren't many of us, just enough to offer help to the District mentors with no other victors but themselves, either because of the decaying health of the winners or simply due to the fact that no other victors have won. We are the eyes and ears of our Head Mentors when fatigue or hunger finally takes hold of their systems. While they are forced to clock out for a few hours, we help their tributes to the best of their ability. Keep an eye on the wall screens, handle the sponsors. There hasn't been much need for me the eight years I've worked here.

I exchange a polite nod with the assistant for District 7 as mentors and invited victors assemble themselves around the long, thin tables. I've taken to eating the Breakfast with District 7's assistant these past years, since both of our Head Mentors are usually too inebriated to talk of tactics. Only this year, Mr. Abernathy beckons me over to the rowdiest table in the center of the dining area, seating me in between his District 11 friends and Peeta's mentor allies. I watch the sad District 7 duo settle into an empty corner of the room. The Head Mentor snores quietly in her porridge as the assistant sits quietly.

Plates of steaming food are placed in front of us as Avoxes work their way from the kitchens to the dining area. I notice our usual Avox, in charge of carting liquor to Mr. Abernathy, is not present. I wonder if Finnick sent her away. Mr. Abernathy doesn't seem to mind, though. He shovels piles of sausages and eggs mixed with a creamy tomato sauce onto his plate as he chats loudly with Mr. Chaff.

"Imagine my surprise when I come down to see old Haymitch schmoozing with all of you! Your tribute must have something up his sleeves if he's got an in with you six," Mr. Chaff guffaws as he points to the mentors from Districts 1, 2 and 4.

"He's got something, all right," says Mr. Abernathy as he sips at a goblet of wine.

Ms. Satin's eyes narrow at the bits of food spraying from Mr. Chaff's mouth as he laughs louder and slaps Mr. Abernathy's back. "He's not in completely with us yet."

"I know, I know, we've still got the fight at the Cornucopia to see what your tribute's think of him."

"Sorry they didn't take to the idea of him, Haymitch. You know how they are, fight first, think later. It's a shame, really. I think Peeta's going to add a lot of… _spirit_ to these Games," Braz says.

"It's all right, I've got my tributes to agree to let Peeta on as long as he's got as many sponsors lined up as you say he does. And who could resist those beautiful baby blues?" Finnick jokes.

"I've seen the sponsor results so far this morning," the other District 1 mentor, Gleam, cuts in. "What a turn out. District 12 on top for the first time in a long time."

"But you know how these Capitol people are. They'll turn around for another tribute at the drop of a hat." Ms. Satin smiles slightly. "I hope your Peeta doesn't get cold feet."

There's a lull in conversation for a moment as the victors scrape their plates. Finnick looks down at his food. I suspect he doesn't think his tributes are up to par this year, and Peeta will be his best bet to keep District 4 in the running. His mentor allies are only lessening his District's chances.

"So how long do you think Peeta will be allying with our tributes?" Braz asks.

"As long as his wits are about him, that's for sure," says Haymitch.

Braz nods, and I wonder if he suspects any ulterior motives. Mr. Abernathy told me himself it was going to be my job to make sure Peeta keeps his allies as far away from Katniss as possible. I focus on finishing my grilled bread with salty fish, in case any of our mentor allies decide to poke around for information. I've seen Districts 1 and 2 working on other sponsor assistants, hoping to gain knowledge from less-suspecting Capitol residents. Members of the Districts never surprise me when they decide to play dirty.

Dishes are taken away and replaced with tureens of delicate fruit. I pick up a strawberry and inspect the tiny fruit carved to represent a precious gem stone. Such elaborate food for people not even from our city, while I'm stuck on canned or frozen for most of the year.

The victors continue to strategize as I pick away at my food. Mr. Abernathy has started up his conversation with his District 11 friend again, so my duties can be excused until talk turns back to District 12.

It's not Peeta's and Katniss's name that calls me back to the conversation, though. Throughout endless talk of weapons and strength, a fading, ashen mass of limbs and fabric slithered into our mist, pouring itself into the mentors' conversation and forming the squat, balding man that sits in front of me now. His features are indistinguishable, his skin washed out. He doesn't fidget, he doesn't express; he is simply there, talking in words that leave no impression on me. I've never seen this victor before. He is from some Games long ago, forgotten in a mess of sly and vicious victors, cast in a blanket of safe anonymity.

He talks with the mentors, forms words that bounce back to me as ideas and comments. His conversation is slippery, evasive; I only gather what he means from the response of the mentors surrounding me. He is from District 3, his tribute wants in, his tribute has a plan. Districts 1, 2, and 4 seemed to have already agreed on this alliance, but I can see that the tribute's scheme slides off them like oil on water, leaving only a vague outline of a strategy. The mentor allies find themselves with another tribute piled into the pact, only they are unsure or don't care about the why or how. District 3 has somehow weaseled its way in and planted itself in our midst. There is something more to this mentor, this victor from District 3, but I pull myself back from what he might be. Nothing good ever comes from catching a slippery District mind.

Mr. Abernathy casually scoots himself over to the District 3 mentor. "We're going to have quite an explosion this year, what with both of our tributes' plans."

The mentor looks directly into Mr. Abernathy's eyes. "Yes, what a show this year. The Capitol audience won't know what to think."

"Well, they're fighters this year, no doubt."

I watch Mr. Abernathy turn back to Mr. Chaff. I don't want to be allies with this strange District 3 victor. I don't want any part of his calculating, evasive plans. And I don't want to be under these Districts' rule, carrying out every order they command. It only leads to trouble. Confusing thoughts, odd feelings for the tributes. They're only district workers being punished for their crimes, and I don't want to be thinking otherwise. The quicker I can be done with my ten-year sentence, the better.

A high, clear bell rings and the sound reverberates around the dining hall. A hush falls over the room as mentors silently exchange handshakes. Our hour is up. In ten minutes, all mentors should be situated for the start of the 74th Hunger Games. I wait by the elevators as Mr. Abernathy claps hands with Peeta's mentor allies and slaps Mr. Chaff on the back. I notice Ms. Satin moves to avoid his handshake.

The elevator doors slide open, but instead of mentors pouring in, Effie Trinket, event planner and possessed time-pusher extraordinaire, bursts out. "Haymitch! Haymitch, do hurry up! I've got more sponsors who want to offer gifts before the Games begin!" she shouts across the crowded room.

Mr. Abernathy lumbers his way across the floor, stopping a good few feet away from Ms. Trinket. "Wouldn't want to keep the public waiting, dear," he deadpans.

Ms. Trinket either doesn't notice his sarcasm or is too harried to be offended; she simply sweeps Mr. Abernathy into an elevator, clicking her tongue as I sneak in behind them. Our elevator shoots up automatically, carting us off to what will surely be the most hectic and annoying Games yet.


	4. Strange Love, Stranger Tactics

"Haymitch, really, we should get you a better stylist. With all the attention we're getting, we want to look our best!" Ms. Trinket trills. Mr. Abernathy rolls his eyes toward the ceiling while Ms. Trinket fusses with his collar. He doesn't say anything, just rubs his hands over his eyes.

They're sitting in matching goose-feather chairs, Ms. Trinket poised at the edge of the seat, ankles crossed, Mr. Abernathy sprawled out and sunken into the soft, worn fabric. Our control room is now brightly lit, showing off thousands of tiny screens concentrated on all the tribute plates and strategic areas around the Cornucopia. Mr. Abernathy has seated himself directly in front of one of the two wall-sized screens, focused on the plate marked for Katniss Everdeen. Ms. Trinket sits in the middle of the control room, jotting down notes on sponsor gifts.

I stand at attention in the spacious front lobby, ready to help any sponsors. More than a few have chosen to watch the initial Cornucopia fight-off on Level 12, probably waiting for camera crews to show up. They want bragging rights on sponsoring what they believe to be the winning District this Games.

Ms. Trinket materializes by my side. "Well, I'd best be off. I've got some talking up to do in the City Circle!"

I watch her leave, secretly glad she's not staying. Usually, I only see Effie Trinket once or twice a Games, checking in on any sponsor duties. Since no sponsors show up and District 12 is often out of the running after the first few days, she never stays long. Good thing too, because any longer with Effie Trinket leaves me heart rate rising and ears ringing.

The betting has begun in the Capitol. The arena hasn't officially been broadcast yet, but everyone likes to place initial bets on tributes during the last heated moments before the Games. I watch as people in the lobby tap madly on handheld betting computers. I've only ever participated in the non-money bets, more for fun than the intense bidding in the City Circle. But the people here today… They look like they have no bounds on how high they're willing to go to pick a lucky winner. The stats screens flash in the lobby, alternately displaying which tributes get bet on the most and the tributes' current statistics. Since the Games haven't begun yet, the stat screens mainly cut between training scores, interview pieces, and speculation commentary. Right now, the stat screen closest to me plays a running talk on Katniss's training score. Sponsors are glued to the screen as TV reporter Angustias Angle dissects a clip of Katniss at the snares training table. To my right, a group of polished, older men gather around a stats screen filled with a close up of Glimmer in her see-through gold gown. They hold their betting computers up, no doubt hoping she'll win and they'll get to have their way with her.

Finally, the trumpets blare across the continent and all the screens flip to the seal of Panem.

"Ladies and gentlemen… The seventy-fourth Hunger Games are about to begin!" announces Claudius Templesmith, his voice echoing up and down the streets of the Capitol. Applaud and shouts can be heard from the City Circle below us.

The screen switches again to flowing video of the arena. "And like every year, here we have the golden Cornucopia, stocked full of weapons for our players. We can't give away all our fun, but let me tell you. We've placed some weapons in there guaranteed to give us all a good, bloody Games! If only you could see our training score tapes…" Hollering echoes from the streets below us and the screens pan over the lake and forest. "I sure hope some of our players can swim, because here we have a lake filled with some of our better secrets…"

"Maren," rasps Mr. Abernathy quietly. "Maren, can you come in here and cover Peeta's screen?" I push through the glass doors and take a seat in the chair Ms. Trinket recently vacated. "Tell me if…" Mr. Abernathy pauses for a second and takes a swig from a wine bottle. "Only tell me if he doesn't make it in with the Careers."

I obediently scoot over to Peeta's wall screen, staring intently at an empty tribute plate. Suddenly, the grounds begin to shift on the plain and I can almost feel the entire Capitol waiting on bated breath. Out pops twenty-four players, expressions ranging from terrified to vicious, cameras swiveling from prey to predator.

Peeta eyes the Cornucopia and the arena for the briefest of seconds, then begins scouting out players. I don't think this is the kind of behavior that will keep him alive long in the Games, but what can you do? Inattentive tributes lead to bloody screen time for the Capitol, and Mr. Abernathy specifically said only to bother him if Peeta dies in the fight-off. He positions his feet to run towards the Cornucopia, but still he keeps his eyes on the tributes.

"It looks like we've got a few more than the basic alliance going this year, Panem. See there?" The screens playing on official airtime are probably zooming in on a tribute. "We've got Districts 1, 2 and 4 tributes looking prepared to run to the Cornucopia, no surprise there, but look over here. That's Katniss Everdeen and Peeta Mellark, yes, our star crossed lovers from District 12, positioned to run into the thick of things. Can the both of them survive our seventy-fourth fight-off?"

"Idiot girl! The woods, head for the woods!" shouts Mr. Abernathy. I hear the clank of a bottle forcefully thrown onto the counter, but I don't turn around. Mr. Abernathy's drunken threats scare me, and he seems much more into the Games than I've ever seen him. I don't want his anger turned on me if he sees me straying from my task.

On my own screen, Peeta locks eyes with Katniss across the tribute circle and shakes his head.

"I guess we've got one protective lover on our hands. It looks like Peeta Mellark has just saved Katniss from the bloody fight at the Cornucopia! I don't know if I'm relieved or disappointed not to see Katniss's 11 in training score make its debut."

A watermark ten second countdown fills the official airtime screen. I hear people from the City Circle counting down along with Claudius through the open window. "Three! Two! One…!"

The gong sounds and all the players bolt into action. Peeta flies from his metal plate and sprints for the Cornucopia.

"No, leave it and go! Run, sweetheart, you idiot girl," Mr. Abernathy continues to shout behind me. He's quiet for a moment, then I hear a sharp intake of breath.

At the same time, Peeta reaches the Cornucopia and immediately tugs a knife free from the pile of shining, gleaming weapons. But not before Carew from District 4 slashes a deep wound in Peeta's forearm with his spear. Peeta lunges forward, sinking his knife into Carew's gut. Carew slumps backward and Peeta pushes him away, running towards Katniss's plate.

"Whoah, that was a close one! It looks like Katniss Everdeen has gotten lucky this time!" Claudius exclaims. Mr. Abernathy exhales behind me and rolls his chair next to mine, switching his focus seamlessly to Peeta. I take the moment to finally turn around and see Katniss jogging into the sparse pine forest, a knife sticking out of her neon-orange backpack.

Back to Peeta's screen, I watch as he flounders for just a moment, making sure Katniss has gotten away. Pax, the male tribute from District 5, takes this moment to slam his fist into the backside of Peeta's neck. Peeta hits the ground hard, but he rolls over quickly and jumps to his feet, brandishing his knife. Pax goes in for another hit at Peeta's stomach, but Peeta jumps out of the way and slashes at Pax's fist. Pax involuntarily opens his fist as blood begins to pour from the wound, and Peeta slices off a few of his fingers. Pax jumps backwards, right into Cato's field of vision. The spear pierces clean through Pax's neck before he even has time to turn around.

Cato and Peeta size each other up for a moment. Then a knife comes whistling between the two, sticking solidly in its target a few feet away. Clove, Cato's District partner, comes running between the two to retrieve her knife from Alida of District 9, planting her boot on Alida's shoulder in order to yank the knife out of her skull.

As Clove wipes the dripping blade on her undershirt, the camera zooms in on Cord, the District 3 female tribute, sprinting full force at Clove, holding a spiky mace high in the air. The weapon surprises me, seeing as how Cord looks so slight she can barely lift the thing up. Peeta acts before any of them, leaping forward and planting his knife into Cord's thigh. Cord pitches forward, landing face first on the packed dirt. She lifts her head up, blood streaming from her nose. She tries to shuffle away on her hands and knees, but Cato slams his boot onto the back of her head, forcing Cord's nose to crunch into the ground again.

"Care to do the honors? Ally?" Cato smirks as Peeta hesitantly takes a step forward.

"Peeta," Mr. Abernathy growls warningly. For a second, I don't know why Mr. Abernathy doesn't want Peeta to kill the girl. Wouldn't it mean more sponsors for him? It would show how tough and strong Peeta really is. But then I think back to Peeta's interview, remember how bashfully he spoke of Katniss, how charming he was for the camera. Mr. Abernathy doesn't want Peeta to commit such a vicious act, perhaps because he knows Peeta is a sweet boy with a nice family at home.

I shake this thought immediately from my head. This picture doesn't sit right with my years of celebration for the Games. Peeta is a member of the Districts; he came from families of rebels. He is being punished.

On screen, Clove pushes Peeta back. "No, she's mine. She came for me." She flips over the squirming girl and sits herself on Cord's chest, like a queen on her throne. "What's your name, pretty girl?" Clove traces the knife, still red with Alida's blood, teasingly over Cord's mouth.

Mr. Abernathy pulls himself out of his chair and grabs for his wine bottle. He takes a swig, but the camera cuts to Peeta's face for a brief second. Mr. Abernathy puts the bottle back on the counter, but he doesn't sit back down. Instead, he paces the control room, glancing at the numerous smaller screens showing Katniss jogging in the pine forest from all different angles.

I am glued to my screen with a sort of sick fascination. Cord attempts to rake her fingers down Clove's face, but Clove pins her wrists down with her knees. "No name? You _can_ hear me, right?" Clove paints red swirls on the inside of the girl's ears and face as Cord screams and screams.

The pool of blood under Cord's body grows larger and larger as her shouts grow quieter. Finally, Clove delivers her final blow and the people in the lobby and City Circle give a cheer. Mr. Abernathy slams the small window in the control room closed and most of the jubilation is silenced. In the quiet, the soft congratulations and slight breeze catch the microphones in the arena trackers and amplify around the room. Peeta joins Cato and Clove as they head back towards the Cornucopia. In the background, Glimmer and Marvel from District 1 and Anaya from District 4 hack away at the last weak stragglers.

I turn around to see Mr. Abernathy standing directly in front of Katniss's wall screen. It looks like the heat and exertion are already getting to her. Sweat pours off her skin as she walks at a fast pace, her braid swinging between her shoulder blades. "That's it, sweetheart," he says to the screen. "Just keep moving."


	5. Ashen Firsts

Back on my screen, the whole of Peeta's alliance are grouped together at the Cornucopia's mouth. The sandy earth is splashed in red all around them, and bodies lie at awkward angles across the plain as I click a button and the camera zooms out.

"Camera: zoom in," Mr. Abernathy says clearly to the room, and the picture immediately flies back to Peeta. The giant wall screen allows us to see the tributes life-size, the way they would look if they were really standing right in front of us. Peeta grabs a large, green knapsack from the pile of supplies in front of them. Anaya pulls more knives out from underneath a stack of firestarters and shoves them in Peeta's bag. For herself, she unsheathes a long, slim gold sword.

"What happened to Cardew, Peeta? Why is he dead?" Anaya plays with her blade, balances the sword on the tips of her fingers.

Peeta stops yanking out strips of bandages and turns to Anaya. "He gave me this." He points to the gushing wound on his upper arm and then turns back to the bandages. "He just kept coming at me. I had to fight back, or otherwise I'd be dead myself." Peeta pulls out a roll of medical tape.

"I say trust him for now, Anaya," Clove says. She pushes Anaya's blade into the dirt. "Lover Boy might be useful again later," she leers.

Peeta grins softly as he rolls sterile white bandages over his open cut. "I don't know where Katniss is. After I announced to everyone in the whole continent that I loved her, she pushed me into some pottery and told me to stay away." He cuts the medical tape with his teeth and stamps it securely over his bandages.

"You're lying," Clove says defiantly.

"Am I?" Peeta holds out his hands palms faced outwards, revealing dirty, peeling bandages over red, raw cuts. Clove pushes her way closer to Peeta, staring him down with her sparking blue eyes.

"We're wasting time here. Let's get all this stuff to the lake so they can take these rotting bodies away from us," Cato interjects.

All six of them roll food barrels and lug first-aid kits and blankets to a clearing beside the lake ringed with boulders. Peeta sets up tents and unrolls sleeping bags while Anaya prepares a meal and Marvel tends a fire. Cato perches himself on a large rock, cleaning his large collection of spears.

Claudius takes this time to analyze Katniss's feelings for Peeta. For half an hour, Capitol call-ins and random citizens on the street dissect just a few hours of footage for any hint of budding love. One call-in zeroes in on the hand-holding at the opening events, another refutes it with a clip of Katniss running away and Peeta holding up his bandaged hands. Claudius brings on his guest commentator, Angustias Angle, and lets him rattle on about his theory that Peeta is only protecting Katniss. It goes on and on, until I can't believe the entire country isn't exhausted over the argument. But the calls keep coming.

In the arena, Glimmer stares up at the mountain of food and weapons. She pulls a bow and arrows out of the pile, tests the string. "How are we going to protect all of this?"

"Don't worry, we've got a plan," Cato calls from his seat on the rocks. "He should be getting here any time now," he says, sounding almost bored.

On the smaller live-airing screens around me, the camera pans out, locates a small, ashen boy in the tree line next to the lake, and zooms in on him.

Claudius Templesmith booms out over the video. "Looks like we've got yet another surprise addition to our little clan! Surprise, surprise. I wonder how he weaseled himself into the group?"

The Capitol hurls theories and schemes over the airwaves as the entire country waits for an answer. My forum feeds for District 12, usually so dead during the Games, beep constantly as residents madly type their ideas. The announcer quiets for a few minutes, and the lull in sound draws everyone in closer to their screens, waiting for body count reactions. Soon the cannons start sounding, firing in surround-sound around our tiny room, shaking the floor as if we were really there, really feeling the weight of the cannons. But we don't feel them, not for real.

Peeta and the others look up, counting the deaths on their fingers. The pact exchanges high fives, hold up bottles of over-flowing water in celebration. Peeta breaks away sooner than the rest, and in the cloak of shouts and yells for the pact, he angles his face towards the crafted sky, letting worry and doubt color his features for just a moment. The Capitol goes berserk.

"And there we have it folks, eleven dead! Wow, that was some intense betting around the City Circle. One of the hottest bids in years. But if you're tribute didn't make it, don't worry, there are still thirteen of the players left. I don't know about you, Angustias, but I've got a sharp eye on a few of these tributes."

"Yes, same here, Claudius. And I've got the results in, it looks like those tributes most heavily bet on are Cato—oh, he was brilliant with those spears. Thresh, the giant from District 11—the only one to head for the fields, we'll see if he finds our fun there. Clove, with her fantastic knife show. And Katniss and Peeta, our very own star crossed lovers!"

I see the sponsors in the lobby jump up, cheer on the tributes from District 12. Some have already lined up at the doors to the control room, waiting to shower Peeta and Katniss in medicine and food. Mr. Abernathy ignores them, still watching Katniss as she sorts through her pack.

"Sir, should I take care of the sponsors?"

"Leave them," says Mr. Abernathy. "I'll get to them when Katniss really needs something." In front of him, Katniss pants as she wipes sweat from her brow and checks the sky for clouds. It seems to me she could really use some water, but I guess Mr. Abernathy has other thoughts. He clicks a few buttons on the side of the wall screen, and numbers and measurements appear over the forest. He taps the screen three times with his index finger and the forest starts rolling slowly as the numbers inch themselves up. Suddenly, Mr. Abernathy stabs the screen and the visuals comes to a halt on the banks of a small stream. A number glows softly in the corner of the picture: 4.7 miles.

"You can do it, sweetheart."

I turn to Peeta's screen, where he is inhaling strips of dried beef and handfuls of almonds into his mouth. I wonder what he did to get Mr. Abernathy to ignore him so.

As the pack finishes their meal, the small boy, Asher from District 3, appears at the edge of the rocks surrounding their base camp. Peeta looks surprised and the tributes from District 1 jump up with their weapons, but Cato waves them back down lazily as Clove and Anaya look on with detached interest.

"You can still do it, right?" Cato says.

Asher nods. "I think so."

Cato jumps up suddenly, his spear at the ready. "You _think_ so?" he demands menacingly.

"N-No! I know so!" the boy stutters.

The pack follows Cato and Asher to the metal plates and stand around while Claudius Templesmith dissects all of Asher's possible plans. District 1 and Peeta still look a bit wary, but the rest bounce on the balls of their feet, ready for a plan they are sure will be a first in history.

"He's gonna dig up the explosives. Mine the food so the other tributes can't get to it," Mr. Abernathy says suddenly. I look up at him standing behind me, my eyes wide. "Yeah, it was pretty hard to follow down at the Breakfast, wasn't it?" he jibes, referring back to the elusive man from District 3.

This is the first time Mr. Abernathy has ever made an attempt to talk of anything but an order to me after the Games start. I don't know what to say and I'm not sure what I want this District victor to think of me. But the pause in conversation is dragging on, so I finally add,"Too bad about the girl though. Maybe she was going to help?"

"Yeah, whatever." Mr. Abernathy grows into a stony silence again and sinks back into the chair in front of Katniss's screen. Whatever I said, it was wrong.

I turn around again and watch the pack hand out shovels and dig to the unarmed explosives underneath the tribute plates. Claudius Templesmith sounds shocked as he narrates what is folding out in the arena. "This is surely one of many firsts in our Hunger Games," he says.

I just catch Mr. Abernathy's smirk before it fades from his face.


	6. Oceanic Encounters

I wake up right before sunrise to Mr. Abernathy hollering at his videoscreen. I roll over onto my back, letting the rough springs of the cot dig into my spine, staring up at the ceiling. Last year both of the tributes were dead ten minutes into the Games and I was free before noon to do whatever I wanted while still getting paid. But this year it seems like I'll be camping out in this uncomfortable control room for too long. Mr. Abernathy is only getting louder, so I force myself out of my makeshift bed, stretching my sore muscles as I head to my chair.

"Away from the tree! Move away, boy!"

My Head Mentor is as close as he can get to the wall screen without his nose touching. Spit flies from his mouth and lands on an extreme close up of Katniss's face, wide-eyed and half-covered in leaves and shadows. He's got the wallscreen split in two, half showing Katniss up a tree and half showing Peeta huddled with his pack under a willow, arguing. Two red dots just about on top of each other beep softly on our tracking system above the wall screen.

"We're wasting time! I'll go finish her and let's move on!" I just hear Peeta yell before Mr. Abernathy lets out a sound between a groan and a shout, and his nose really is up against the screen now. There's a rustling and from the pieces of the screen I can see through Mr. Abernathy's body, I gather that Katniss has fallen out of her tree. I wait for the impact of body and ground, but all I see is Katniss swinging slightly in the air, held in place by some unseen object.

"Remember the cameras! Is she remembering the fifty cameras waiting to broadcast her across the Capitol? Is HE?" Mr. Abernathy is pacing the floor now, and I'm not sure who he's addressing anymore. Katniss is motionless on our screen as the Head Mentor continues to pace, his steps becoming quicker and sharper with every passing minute. I watch Peeta comfort a dying girl as she lays in a pool of blood. The cannon booms and Mr. Abernathy stops moving abruptly. "Good… good," he mutters under his breath.

Katniss still isn't moving long after the pact is gone, and I'm just beginning to wonder if she's hurt before she finally lets out a long breath and rights herself. Mr. Abernathy isn't relaxing, though. He's still staring as bits and pieces of Katniss packing her things poke through the leaves on the screen.

Her feet finally hit the ground and she pauses for a moment. Mr. Abernathy looks like he's about ready to have an aneurysm. Then a sly grin passes across her face and Mr. Abernathy is sporting a huge smile as he sinks into his chair. "There we go, sweetheart. Better than I would have thought."

I can almost feel the ripple passing across the Capitol. On the official airtime screen, phones are ringing madly in the background as Claudius Templesmith replays the scene again and again in slow motion. Everyone is falling head over heels for our tributes' love; I can see it through the glass as people bob around in Level 12's lobby, craving the wildly romantic love story they can never have themselves. If anyone has been doubting Katniss's reciprocation for Peeta's love, they aren't now. The Capitol has fallen for that wicked little grin on Katniss's face, a look that says she knows what her players don't. That says she can beat them all. I know what it really means, though: she knows what the Capitol doesn't. She knows she can fool us all with her own love games. I sigh as I watch sponsors in the lobby talk over the Games, people so enamored with a tale of star-crossed lovers. I could have been one of them, enjoying a fabrication designed so beautifully for us. But now I'm behind the scenes, and I hate the secrets uncovered, so barren without the Capitol to dress it up for me.

But tending to the lies now are the only way to ease my mind in years to come. Despite how relieved he looks, Mr. Abernathy's eyes are very bloodshot and his eyelids are drooping.

"Sir, do you want to—I can take over for a bit if you want to get some rest."

He rubs his hands over his eyes and gives a sigh. "I've got it, Maren. Just get me a pot of coffee."

I turn to leave but Mr. Abernathy's voice stops me. "Give me a large dose of those energizers in there. And bring me some wine." Then he turns away, and it's clear he wants to be left alone.

So instead of simply calling down for my order, I head out into the lobby and wait for an elevator to take me down to the dining area. The sun is just starting to come up, and everyone around me is gathering their things, getting ready to clock out for the day. They'll head home, sleep until noon, and wake up to another exciting day filled with parties and adventure. They don't even have to worry about missing the best bits while they sleep; there are always recap channels, commentary threads, and forum feeds to keep them updated every minute of every day. I remember going to Games parties when I was younger, tossing back champagne and hors d'oeurvres, replaying the bloody battles again and again and skipping over the boring bits with too much wine.

I ride down to the dining hall, the wealthy sponsors that step in behind me keeping a cool distance in the elevator cart. By the time I reach the dining hall in the basement, there is no one left but me. I step out into the spacious room with its cavernous ceiling and polished table tops and the sound reverberates off the walls. It's almost empty; there are only a few mentors milling about, nursing a steaming cup or scarfing down a plate of delicious smelling food. I walk up to the menu counter and order two cups of coffee with an extra shot of energizers, a small bottle of wine, and two seafood dishes. Tilapia drizzled in a sweet and sour sauce with sautéed greens, mmmm. I know Mr. Abernathy didn't want any food, but he has to eat sometime and I might as well get the expensive food I can never afford outside the Games Headquarters. A cook tells me everything will be delivered to our floor soon, so I slip into a seat in the corner, enjoying the few moments I can spend away from my Head Mentor.

Of course, I can't enjoy it for long. Finnick Odair slides into the seat across from me, folding his hands on the table and watching me expectantly. I don't say anything, and of course Finnick takes this as his cue to start a friendly conversation. Ugh.

"The tilapia's a good choice. I used to catch them all the time, back when I had to work... It's my favorite seafood dish in the Capitol."

Still I don't say anything. The muscles in my back and abdomen are tensed, but I keep my eyes on Finnick. Something tells me he won't go reporting me to my official if the reason I violated the rules is Finnick was digging for information.

"Did you see the bloodbath at the Cornucopia? I almost thought your Peeta wouldn't make it." He leans in, his tone superficial but his eyes searching mine.

_Only because you told your tribute to kill him_, I think. But I don't say it. Not to a victor. Instead, I only say, "I saw it."

"I really do hope he stays in longer. He's got a good head on his shoulders."

Silence.

"Did you think so when he did his interview? That's what convinced me to let him into our alliance."

Someone drops a pan far off in the kitchens somewhere and the bang echoes around the room. Finnick leans back in his chair, stretches his arms behind his head. He's not looking at me anymore, but at one of the many official airtime screens hanging in the dining area. Finnick's tribute Anaya and the rest of the alliance are walking back towards the lake as the sun continues to rise. Peeta brings up the rear of the group, glancing behind him every so often, searching high in the trees. For something.

"I love it!" he suddenly shouts, and I start. "I really love what he's bringing to the Games!"

Has Finnick Odair gone _mad_? What is he _doing_? He just laughs at my expression, rocking back onto the two hind legs of his chair. Big, pealing laughs that match his personality perfectly. Excessive and annoying.

I avert my eyes, not knowing where to look as Finnick continues to laugh insanely, and I find Ms. Satin lurking in the far corner by the water dispensers. She takes quick steps towards our table and Finnick grins stupidly at me, his eyes sparkling mischievously. Was he trying to get her attention the whole time?

"Finnick, what are you doing?" she demands.

"I'm talking with our ally. I really wish you'd come up to Level 4 with me and talk about our plans. Look," Finnick gestures to the menu counter. "I told them to get your favorite! Devil's cake."

"It's called Angel food cake."

"Not for you, Miss Satin Korvin."

"And it's not my favorite! What are you doing, Finnick? What do you want?"

"Come on. Braz is coming up for me. We'll talk sponsor gifts."

"I have to help my own tributes. And unlike you, I still have both of mine."

Finnick clamps his jaw closed tightly and stands up. For the first time in person, he looks dangerous and volatile. I jump out of my chair and quickly head for the elevator, not even excusing myself properly. Behind me, I hear a chair topple over, but I don't turn around. The sounds of a scuffle reverberate around the cavernous dining area. As the elevator doors close, I catch one final glimpse of the echoing room before I'm enveloped in quiet and I slump against the wall. I can't get in trouble for this, right?


	7. Unquenched

By the time I close the control room doors behind me, Mr. Abernathy is already digging into his food. A piece of stringy vegetable hangs from his beard as he scoops up fish with one hand, both eyes on Katniss's wall screen. Does he know what Finnick and Ms. Satin were doing? Does he care?

I collapse into my cushy chair seconds before there is a sharp rap at the door. I suck in my breath, waiting for my official to come marching in and drag me away. But it's only some sponsor, peering in through the semi-translucent glass.

"Can you get that?" Mr. Abernathy says, licking sauce from his fingers. I groan inwardly but head dutifully for the door. When I open it, a girl no older than twenty topples into the control room.

"Oh, please let me give water to Katniss! Look at her! I have it right here!" the girl wiggles a bottle of water in her hand, stepping closer towards me.

"Miss, you can't be in here—" I start to say.

"Look at her! What if she gets attacked? What will Peeta _do_?"

It's quiet for a moment as we all watch Katniss stumble over a tree root for a second before determinedly righting herself onto the unseen path she follows. She doesn't show any emotion, but her face is flushed and her shoulders stooped.

Then Mr. Abernathy stands up and crosses the floor, extending a hand that he has (thankfully) wiped the food off of. The girl shakes his hand weakly, still clutching the water bottle in her other fist. "It's very kind of you to donate for Katniss," Mr. Abernathy says calmly. "But I don't want to waste such a valuable gift so early." He places his hand on the small of the girl's back and gently leads her towards the door. "Katniss is a fighter. I know she's going to make it to water before she gets hurt."

I'm just thinking Mr. Abernathy is smooth enough to pull this off before the girl begins sobbing, fat tears streaking down her red cheeks. "I know it's not the best, but I just… I think of Peeta all alone in the arena and I can.'t… I can't…" She stands there crying, overwhelmed by emotion. It's all I can do not to roll my eyes.

"If I show you Katniss is safe, do you promise to keep your donations around until later?" Mr. Abernathy asks. The girl nods and he leads her over to his chair, right in front of the wall screen. He clicks a button and the video zooms out just enough to show the distance between Katniss and the stream. The number 2.8 glows softly in the corner. "She's so close, she's safe. If you just sign one of our donation slips outside, I promise I'll keep her from getting hurt before then."

The girl brightens considerably. "That's great! Maybe I'll add a little more of a donation, just in case."

"Thanks, sweetheart. Alright, out you go…" Mr. Abernathy leads her by the hand out of the control room. The whole exchange wasn't particularly legal, but the girl looks so grateful, and to be honest a little seduced, that she won't say anything.

Mr. Abernathy parks himself back in his chair and I sit down and dig into my meal. Every so often, there is a knock on the door, a sponsor sent over by Effie, offering advice or donations. I sit and watch, finish my food, as Mr. Abernathy takes their money, ignores their advice, and eases their worries. The dishes have been cleared and we've both Mr. Abernathy and I knocked back a considerable amount of wake-up shots before anything good happens on screen. I take a nap and wake up to Mr. Abernathy snoozing with his head down on his control panel, plastic cups of coffee and bottles of wine littered around his chair. He looks considerably less on edge in his sleep, so I let him snore as I watch the screens.

The sun is just beginning to set in the arena as Katniss lugs herself into a tree. She's been positively boring all day and I'm happy this leaves me with a reason not to have to watch her anymore. On the other hand, Peeta and the pact are just starting to suit up for a long hunt. They clear away their lavish dinner of dehydrated Capitol food and fresh fruit, add more logs to their burning bonfire. Plumes of smoke billow around their base camp, shrouding them all in a cast of foreboding. With the last rays shining through the thick cloud, they look beautiful and dangerous.

Glimmer slings the bow and arrows over her shoulder and Marvel weighs a spear in his hands and then they are off, following Cato and Clove through the darkening woods. Anaya holds her sword at the ready, waiting for Peeta to throw on his pack before she heads out with him. Asher stays behind, placing food and clothes in strategic places over the mines and fiddling with a control wire.

"Wonder who we might find tonight," Anaya says to Peeta. She walks a little ahead of him, finishing a last handful of dried berries.

"Could be anyone."

"Not Thresh. We know where he's gone."

"That's true."

Anaya turns around and walks backward in front of Peeta. "Are you worried we'll find her, Lover Boy?" The way she lilts her speech, the teasing way she bumps her hip against Peeta, all of it reminds me of Finnick Odair. I wonder if Anaya was good friends with Finnick, if she picked up her tactics from him. Maybe he taught her how to drive that golden sword right through Peeta's gut.

Peeta quickens his stride, but Anaya easily falls in step beside him. "No. I'm not," he says.

"What would you do if we found her? Would you let _me_ kill her?" She playfully jabs her sword in front of the two of them. "I can get her right through the mouth. I'd want to do that, if someone said those words that rejected _me_."

Peeta is clenching his jaw, but Anaya is too busy to see his stance as she swishes her sword in the empty air in front of her. "Something like that," he says.

"Did she tell you how she got that training score? _Eleven_! Maybe she stood up in front of the Gamemakers and told them all the ways she could reject you." She doesn't wait for Peeta's reply, just cackles and skips ahead.

Peeta walks alone for a few minutes before Cato materializes next to him, his night vision glasses reflecting the torch Peeta holds. "You still have nothing on the eleven, huh." His tone is reproachful. "You _did_ live with her. Your whole life."

"I did," Peeta says. He stops, crouches down to get a swig of water from his bag. Cato towers over him, his hand clutched around a spear, his arrogant expression half concealed by the glasses. "I did live with her. She used to sing all the time. All these songs about sappy love stories. When they called my name after hers… I thought she wouldn't even be a threat to me. Then she asked for separate coaching, and she got that eleven… and I decided I'd say I was in love with her, and she'd fall for all that moony romance. She probably did."

Claudius Templesmith gasps as Cato scoffs on screen. I see commotion in the front lobby as people try to pick apart what was true and what was false about Peeta's explanation. "She obviously hasn't fallen that hard for him," says a call-in on the air. "Peeta's lying and she's in on the plan, remember how she reacted to seeing him in the arena?" says another caller. "Why don't they just team up, then?" adds another.

"Wait, wait, wait." Angustias Angle holds up his hand on the official airwaves, stopping future call-ins for the moment. "They _are_ planning together. Don't you see how Peeta always leads the alliance away from truths about Katniss? He does love her. But there can only be one victor… and Peeta wants it to be Katniss."

More gasps on the air from the live audience, as if this is the first time they're considering this. Then shouts of pain start bouncing around the airwaves, and Claudius and Angustias are bombed again with callers.

"They have to be together!"

"All bets on the both of them making it to the final two!"

"This can't end well for them!"

"Do you think the alliance will figure it out?"

One call-in is hysterically sobbing, yelling out unintelligible words. She's so loud she wakes Mr. Abernathy. He shoots up from his stooped position over his control panel and looks up blearily. The first thing he focuses on is Katniss's screen, where she sleeps fretfully high in a tree. Then he pounds his control panel and the official airtime screen goes blank. We're left in almost complete silence, the only sound coming from Peeta's quiet steps in the woods or an occasional soft moan from Katniss in her sleep.

"I miss anything?" Mr. Abernathy grumbles sleepily. His face is flushed and he smells of liquor. Drunk.

"Nothing fun."

He eyes me up, his eyes slits as he takes me in. He's been silent a little too long and I'm just getting scared he might do something drunkenly drastic before he opens his mouth.

"Nothing is fun about this." And then he slumps over in his chair again, snoring.


	8. Sleeping It Off

Mr. Abernathy sleeps all night, moaning unintelligible words as he works off all the wine. There's absolutely nothing to do. I can barely keep my eyes open as Peeta treks silently through the woods and Katniss shifts fretfully in her sleep on the screens. All I have to listen to is the soft sound of the wind whistling through the arena mics and a few grunts here and there as a shrouded tribute stumbles in the darkness. Both of my players are being so boring that they've exhausted the love story and the Capitol has turned to a special on Thresh on live time.

They show him cutting long grasses with the stubby knife he managed to pilfer from the Cornucopia, coaxing real food out of the tangle of different colored stalks that sway in the breeze. Show him hunting large birds and scampering bunnies. He eats, he hunts, he eats. I don't know why they've chosen a special on this player until they cut to the real action. Thresh with his foot stuck in a pool of sinking sand, chased by a wild beast. Crushing waves threatening to wash him out into the murky, surprisingly deep pond in the heart of his field. A giant shark muttation chasing him out of the water as soon as he manages to claw himself to the surface of the water. _He's really gotten the short end of the stick_, I think as I watch him sew up gaping bite marks with a flimsy needle and course thread. The jagged, black lines closing up the wound on his legs remind me of the tribute dolls I used to play with when I was little. They came in complete sets for every Games, and I would run them through hell and back, narrating my own Games as I went. I wore my 59th Games set down to the threads, dragging them around utility tunnels and cutting them up in the tall pine trees in the hiking areas on the outskirts of the Capitol. My mother gave me needles and thread and I tried messily patching up their scrapes the same way the tributes did on screen.

Mr. Abernathy snorts loudly in his sleep and I wonder what he would think of my tribute sets. Would he like the mini 50th set version of himself, the one that sits in a glass case in my mother's house? The scent of stale sweat and liquor wash over me and I think, _probably not_.

Hours pass by, and I order food straight to Level 12. Noodles soaked in pork fat and mixed with exotic, mouthwatering spices. Turmeric and garam masala, just to name a few from my mother's pantry. Nothing that reminds me of the ocean. It's just nearing dawn again and my eyes are drooping so much I consider waking my Head Mentor. But then I remember his state and I think better on coming near him.

Peeta and the alliance are just returning to their base camp. Asher has set up all the tents and blankets around the fire for the other tributes, but he sleeps soundly under the rosy sky. All the tributes haphazardly stuff strips of dried meat and cheese crackers in their mouths before dropping off into a dead slumber. Except for Cato. He comes stomping up from the rear of the group, groaning and fuming over his empty list of kills for the night. He's so loud and so angry he draws a few players from their sleeping bags.

Glimmer places her hand on his shoulders and tries to calm his down. "We've got all the rest of our nights to look. And we know where at least one of them is," she says pointedly, thrusting her chin at the drop off to the left of the lake.

"It's not her! It's not that little miss oh-golly-I'm-in-love eleven!" Cato works himself into such a fury he kicks the lump curled up in Asher's sleeping bag. He seems a little more at ease when Asher lets out a yelp of surprise and pain, jerking out of his dream land to the hulking tribute standing over him.

"Cato, leave him alone. He hasn't done anything," Peeta says.

"I can do whatever the hell I want, no input from _you_, Lover Boy." He kicks Asher twice more in the stomach to emphasize his point. Peeta watches as the frail boy rolls over and moans, trying to inch away from Cato's heavy boot.

"He's still got the code to teach us. I'd treat someone with that much leverage over me with a little more respect if I was you."

Cato is instantly in front of Peeta, staring him down so forcefully their noses almost touch. "Watch it, Lover Boy. I can take you anytime I want." He shoves Peeta hard in the chest, knocking him over a few stray logs. Peeta is up in a flash, hand flying for his knife.

"Stop it! Just lay off, Cato. The both of you. Get some sleep," Anaya says, wedging herself in between the two tributes. Peeta still holds on to the handle of his knife, but Anaya and Cato don't even turn to look at him as they collapse into their tents.

"I'll take first watch," Peeta mutters as he eases his sore limbs down in front of the fire. But as the sky begins to transform from rosy-yellow to white-blue, his eyelids grow heavy. Every so often his eyes close and his head dips down, the time it takes him to snap awake growing longer and longer. Soon I begin to doze off as well. Everyone fun in the Capitol has gone to bed. There's not even any fun commentaries or tribute pieces playing anymore.

I find myself jolting awake to the soft murmur of a fill-in Games announcer. Peeta shoots up alert almost seconds after I do. The airtime screen pans over to a fiery-headed tribute sleuthing between boulders and bushes at the base-camp treeline. I immediately recognize her as Callide from District 5. She inches herself along towards the pile of food, taking silent, cautious steps. Peeta leans back against a log, his eyes slits as he waits for Callide to walk right into his domain.

As Callide saunters right over to the supply pyramid and starts picking for food, Peeta's plan for a surprise attack melts into yet another strange tactic I can't pick apart. He closes his eyes completely, letting the girl take whatever she wants! Like he's so weak, he can't even stop a tiny fourteen-year-old.

I guess the fill-in announcer has a different view of it, though. He carefully zooms the picture on Peeta's face, catching the slight smile playing across his lips. Says it's just one other hint marking Peeta closer to his distressed lover. Blah, blah, blah. No one will even pay attention to his words until Claudius reiterates them, after his nice, long nap at one of the plushest houses in the city.

I'm done with listening to this love story and I'm done watching tributes sleep while I have to stay awake. I flip my scanner screen closed with a bang and make lots of noise as I roll myself as far away as I can from Mr. Abernathy. He jumps up, his shoulders tensed tightly as he stares confusedly around the control room. I can see his thought process working slowly across his face, trying to break free from his post-drunken haze. His eyes settle on Katniss's screen for a moment, where she is rustily gathering up her things, her elbows and knees and neck grinding slowly like an old ungreased machine. Then he turns to me, a surprising amount of fury boiling in his eyes.

"Do you see this girl here? She's dying!" He's pacing again, throwing his hands toward the ceiling. "Do you know what you do when my girl is dying?" I shake my head slightly, recoiling in my chair. He's on me in a flash, filling the small space between us with the stink of dirt and grime. "You wake. Me. Up."

"Yes sir. I, of course—yes. I'll do that from now on."

Mr. Abernathy releases his grip on the arm rests of my chair and pushes himself up to his full height. "You make sure you do, boy. Make sure of it."


	9. Water

I sink into my tiny, uncomfortable cot and pull the sheets right up to my nose. I want to get away from the lunatic shouting at the screens all around us, but it's impossible. I'm stuck here until the star-crossed lovers die. I can't even escape for a few hours of sleep, as Mr. Abernathy insists on continuing to yell at his tribute located hundreds of miles away. I miss the years when he'd pass out drunkenly but silently in the control room as his tributes were taken out of the running before first night fall.

"Katniss, you've got to keep moving. You're so close. So close, sweetheart, just get up. Get up!"

"Water," Katniss says on screen, as if the both of them are having a nice conversation miles apart from each other.

We've got sponsors lined up out the door more than happy to comply to Katniss's whims, but Mr. Abernathy's not complying. He just stands there, hands in his pockets, as his tribute dies slowly. No wonder District 12 never has a winner. Katniss looks around hopelessly on screen, probably coming to the same conclusion. But instead of waiting angrily for her rightful bottle of water, she pushes herself up determinedly from the tree she was leaning on. She sways a little bit, clutching the rough bark of the pine for balance, but she manages to snap a low hanging branch off the tree to use as a walking stick. "Only a few miles away," my head mentor whispers roughly to the screen. She's on her way, creaking slowly across the woods, blindly following Mr. Abernathy's muddled messages.

Mr. Abernathy has stopped yelling, so I pull the sheets all the way up over my head, roll towards the wall, and nod off.

I'm awoken by loud cheering and talking from the lobby. The shades are pulled tightly down the small window in the control room, but I can tell it must be afternoon by the amount of people awake and rowdy in the Capitol. I roll back over and I'm just about to get up before a new voice stops me.

"She's clever, she is. We've both got that going for us this year." It's Mr Chaff, my head mentor's friend from District 11. I don't remember him in the line-up for mentoring this year, so he must be only dropping by for support. I freeze in my cot, not wanting to cause any more outbursts like last morning.

"Yeah, she's a fighter," Mr. Abernathy says. They both sit in silence for a while, watching Katniss stumble over the dry earth. I can see by our arena trackers that she's barely .2 miles from the closest stream, yet she walks at a snail's pace, stooped over the walking stick and breathing heavily.

"She's sure got a lot of people out there waiting to shower her in gifts. One nearly shoved this in my hands on my way in here." Mr. Chaff holds up a high-tech water bottle designed to heat up or cool off depending on the weather and swishes the liquid inside. They both look at the honking piece of plastic and guffaw.

"Out of all the people bursting in here, nobody even thought to hand me the simplest, cheapest bottle." Mr. Abernathy takes the heavy container in his hands and looks off toward the screens. "One even forgot to fill it with water," he says as he throws the bottle across the room. It lands with a thud a little too close to my cot.

"It's pretty remarkable, though," Mr. Chaff says.

"Give them a story and they all come running…"

"Did you know we could start all this? When they were picked?"

"Not until after the training scores. Not until Peeta showed me what he could do."

"Are you sure about—you know it's going to work?"

Mr. Abernathy turns to look at all the Capitol residents in the lobby. They're all clustered around a giant screen, anxiously wringing their hands and calling up all their friends with news of Level 12 with their skinsets. Every screen in the room is turned to 12's channel, of Katniss trekking desperately through the foliage.

"We're already there," Mr. Abernathy says. The words have barely left his lips when, on screen, Katniss falls flat on her back. I expect her to get right back up. Because everyone keeps saying she's a fighter. The sponsors, the mentors, the announcers. She's a fighter, she'll survive, they chant.

So when she closes her eyes and her expression becomes relaxed, the Capitol is roiling with shock. "Do we have another tribute down for the running merely a few inches away from water?" Claudius booms out over the television. "I don't know about you, but I know I'm not ready to douse this girl on fire with water." Everyone is beside themselves, pressing in on the control room doors or turning to their neighbor for support. Not Mr. Abernathy, though. He sits with Mr. Chaff, calm and cool as the somber pond Katniss lays next to.

Suddenly, as if answering the pleads all over the Capitol, Katniss shoots up to a sitting position.

"There we have it, Panem. The fire keeps on burning." The crowd gathering in Level 12's lobby gives a cheer as Katniss staggers into the water on her hands and knees. The sponsors all congratulate each other on a tribute well chosen. Katniss, they all say, repeated over and over until all I hear is the hisssss bouncing around the lobby and wedging itself into the quiet spaces of the control room. The sound manifests itself into my mind, reminding me that all victors are as dangerous and sly as the slight hiss of a snake. There Mr.'s Abernathy and Chaff sit, simply watching the screen as the whole rest of the Capitol dances and drinks in celebration. Talking in simple words designed to disguise something greater. Probably keeping the love games a secret from the rest of us.

As Katniss sips at her water and my head mentor and his friend talk quietly to each other, I extricate myself from the bed and survey the room. It's littered with wine bottles, empty food boxes, dirty coffee cups, and brightly colored wake-up pill wrappers. I set to work, clearing the space as best I can while avoiding coming in eavesdropping range of the two victors. I've just dumped the last of the garbage down the chute when I notice the quiet. I peek over at the corner to see Mr. Chaff watching me curiously as Mr. Abernathy fiddles with his control panel. Mr. Chaff looks like he wants to say something, but he gets cut off.

"Maren, go get me something to eat." It's clear by Mr. Abernathy's tone that he's dismissing me.

"Anything specific, sir?"

"Just anything," he grunts as he turns his back to me.

As I push open the doors to the lobby, I hear Mr. Chaff speak. "Must be nice service, eh?"

"Not for the circumstances, Chaff." And then the glass doors bang shut and I'm swallowed by the noise and celebration of the lively Capitol residents.


	10. Virtually

Nervously I make my way down to the dining hall. I don't look at anyone in the elevator and I jump every time I hear steps echoing towards me in the large, cave-like dining area. It's always just another sponsorship assistant or an old victor, a few mentors from Districts that are cocky enough with their players they can leave for stretches of time. Or just don't have the resources to help them. It's never Finnick or Ms. Satin though, which eases me considerably each passing minute. I relax near the menu counter, waiting behind a wrinkly victor to order dumplings stuffed with creamy spinach and cheese and grainy crackers topped with creamed-cheese and caviar.

As I wait for the victor in front of me to remember his order, I study the darkened, patchy splotches on the back of his balding head. It's so strange, just how _old_ people from the Districts look. Only the victors ever get to any kind of age equivalent to a Capitol resident, but District members always look ten times our age when projected on television for pre-Games rituals. Even the mayors and peacekeepers! I don't understand how even the richest of them just give themselves over to time and nature.

It's appalling, but what can you expect from those backwards woodsy-folks? I can't wait until I've finally worked off enough of my debt to get away from these people. With any luck, I'll be studying up to be a party chef on the farthest road from here as possible. I won't have to see any of these victors or think about any of their offspring unless it's to root on an amazing kill. Only two more years.

I've finally ordered and situated myself in an alcove off the main dining hall, where nobody can get the wrong impression. From this point, when it's almost empty and quiet and I can see every wall equally, I have to admit the screening and acoustics are really excellent. Somebody in the kitchens has re-programmed the walls since the last time I was down here. Instead of individual screens scattered throughout the room, each of the four walls makes a whole screen, coming together seamlessly to create one surround-picture view of the arena. As the cameras bounce from one tribute's view to another, it feels as if I'm really walking and experiencing the same path they do.

The thing that makes the whole set-up spectacular, though, is the floor and ceiling screens. Up above, it's clear and blue, leaves and branches creating shadows in the room if we're watching a tribute in the woods. Under my feet… it's amazing. Swishing grasses flash to a burbling stream, hard-packed clay fades to spongy pine needles. I can feel the texture of the floor actually change beneath my shoes. The temperature of steaming rocks soaks into my soles before turning into the calming cool of Katniss's pond. The air actually smells of pine sap from Rue's view perched high in a tree. The whole effect is more relaxing than renting a Crafted Cloud hotel room high in the sky above the Capitol.

Little Rue climbs higher, skimming over branches that look much too slight to hold a person. As the pine needles thin and she pokes her head up into the blue Capitol sky, a cool breeze caresses my face, just as is probably happening in the arena. Rue holds her hands above her eyes to shield herself from the sun as she squints into the distance. I turn in a slow circle, watching as she watches. There, in the corner by the tiny bookshelves and armchairs, is a line of orange growing larger and larger as the seconds pass by. At first, it looks like the harmless bonfires I used to have with my friends on the hiking trails late at night. Warm flickers of gold curling harmlessly towards my hands and feet. But then, as the wall of fire descends, calming yellow turns to bursting red flames lapping dangerously at my heels.

Rue is already hopping precariously from branch to branch, tree to tree, long before I grasped the new games the tributes will face. Flames twist and twirl around the little girl's body, sometimes catching an arm or a leg in its snares before she jumps to another tree. As Rue takes a particularly powerful launch over the red wall, the video cuts seamlessly to Katniss. Katniss, on the ground in the middle of a burning world.

Rue's feature was entertaining, like the virtual reality goggles we use to surf on far away oceans. But Katniss's… Sensors connecting the arena to this room blast steaming waves of heat in my face until it's inescapable, crushing in on my skin. Plumes of gray smoke start to fill the air, and I feel like I'm actually choking on the fake exhaust. The blue and black and orange and red blur together in a nauseating mix of fire and smoke, burning and burnt, as Katniss runs for her life. I feel my feet moving too, sprinting with the screens to get away from the heat that invades every pore of my skin. The ground is searing hot beneath my shoes as the floor morphs into a very believable mimicry of smoldering twigs, leaves, and ashes. I close my eyes tightly, because the effect is too much, it's too much, and I smash into something solid and tumble down.

The heavy, synthesized air weights down my lungs, the blaze presses against my eyelids. My mind is reeling, light swirls in random patches, and then…and then…it stops. I take deep, heaving breaths, sucking down the pleasantly warm air that smells of wheat and mud. Cautiously, I ease one eye open, and when the coast looks clear, I open the other. White light fills the room softly from the walls and ceiling. Here I am, right in the middle of the undulating reeds in Thresh's domain. He's standing tall, looking out over the distance at the burning trees.

The screen flickers to a shot of the alliance hurling themselves into the lake. I'm face to face with Peeta waiting on the opposite bank, his blond hair shimmering in the afternoon light. Fake smoke begins to filter in through the room again and I start to hyperventilate, but almost as quick as the shot began, it fades. Pixels begin to separate and dissolve into the woodwork, the air reverting back to standard air-venting temperature. I watch as Peeta's face splits into a millon tiny pieces and then disappears in a flurry of digital bits.

I lean against a toppled chair cushion, feeling my heart beat erratically under my standard assistant's shirt. I rest my forehead on my knees for a long moment, but soon I feel a pressing gaze boring into the top of my skull. I look up to take in all gleaming, rippling, six-foot-one of him. Of course.

"Well, it's technically illegal to have the virtual rooms on during attacks like these, but I won't tell if you won't," he says with a wink. He's leaning against the wall by a tiny control panel, smirking down at me.

"I didn't _want_ to be in here like this," I say back with all the loathing I can get away with. Considering Finnick's got quite an array of my misconducts under his belt, my retort doesn't come out with much scorn.

I rub my bruised shins, aware that Finnick has probably witnessed my whole meltdown. The running, the falling. The hyperventilating.

"Did it feel like you thought it would?" he asks, looking down at me with sudden malice in his eyes. "Was it just as fun as it looks on TV?"

"It wasn't… I didn't…" I'm involuntarily inching backwards, afraid by the hard glint in Finnick's eyes. I remember too well the instant rage Ms. Satin's simple statement put him into the other day.

Finnick continues to glare down at me, tracing his fingers teasingly over the virtual control panel. Waiting for something I'm not sure of. How can this be what everyone fights over in the Capitol?

"It felt terrible," I finally get out.

This seems to relax him. His eyes transform back to their playful, seductive green. He drops his hand from the panel and offers it to me instead. I examine his tan skin for a moment, look for any signs of deceit. Finally, I grip his powerful hand in both of mine and pull myself up. Immediately, I try to dodge out of his way, make a run for the open door. But he catches me easily, leaning down to whisper in my ear.

I rip away from his touch and walk as fast as I can across the floor, which isn't very fast, considering all the spinning and swooping the room keeps doing. I don't want to flee the basement like the weakling I was before, but I have to get out of this little alcove, away from the steady breaths of the victor behind me. As I take short, quick steps, the fading impression of the lake's ebb and flow still swish around my shoes, washing in and out to the rhythm of Finnick's last words.

"It's only a game."


	11. Outside

_This isn't a coincidence_, I think, and the idea makes me stop short, my shoes squeaking on the tiled floor. Nobody looks up at the sound, even as it amplifies around the room. They don't even glance up at the Capitol assistant stopped dead in his tracks in the middle of the dining hall. They don't care. Because they're mentors. Because they're victors. Because they're District members.

Well, they underestimate me. I'm not the dumb, glittery Capitol resident they think I am. I know Mr. Abernathy is planning something with his friend upstairs, and I know Finnick tracking me down not once, but twice in the dining hall is suspicious activity. I know this. I've been hurt by the Capitol too. After all, I have to work as slave for these people.

I look up at the fires burning out all around me. On the screens, tributes run, they hide, they evade. But they get caught, too. Entangled in the searching, grasping fingers of the choking black smoke. I take a deep breath, rip my eyes away from the dying embers, and march back over to the alcove.

Finnick is still there, sitting patiently on a high-rising tabletop, watching his alliance begin a hunt disinterestedly. He's perched just on the edge of the table, swinging his feet back and forth in the air. The act seems so childish, so out of place for a man I've watched kill expertly with a trident. But there he is, leaning towards the screen like a schoolboy ready for his first lesson. He looks, very simply, like his age. Early twenties, still a boy in some respects. In the Capitol, we're barely leaving our parents' houses at that age. If we'd both lived normal lives in the city, nobody would consider either one of us a full-grown man yet.

"Realized we're in an alliance together, did you?" he says, still watching the pack trudge through a shallow stream.

"Why are you talking to me?" I demand.

He finally looks over at me, his hand over his heart in mock hurt. "We're working together to put on the best show in years, haven't you heard? They're wondering what 12 and 4 doing together right at this very moment."

"But I work for the Capitol."

"And I'm a victor."

"Victors aren't fans of us. What do you want with me?"

Finnick continues to swing his feet, staring at me silently for a beat.

"Well, aren't you observant," he says. "Come on, I'll show you how it is out there. Then you can't say no." He jumps from the table and lands solidly on his feet, gesturing me forward.

"Out? I can't go out, it's against the—"

But he's pulling me by the arm, his grip like steel as he drags me out of the room. "It's not against your Capitol's rules if you're mentoring with me," he says.

As he corrals me into the elevator and we shoot up toward the main entrance, I can't help thinking, _say no to what?_

The crystal doors slide shut silently behind me and I blink back the dazzling sunlight to see the scene in front of me enfold. The party is in full swing at the City Circle. People are packed onto the cobblestone, dancing and gambling, waving slips of tribute bets high in the air. Every couple feet, headpieces like the one District 12's stylists constructed for the opening ceremonies send a blast of harmless flames into the sky above the churning mass of people. I barely have time to register the giant Games screen the size of a building wall showing Katniss tending to burns at a spring before we're attacked from all sides.

"Finnick! Finnick!" ladies screech from all angles. "Finnick, come dance with us!" They're practically clawing one another to stand next to him. More than one old maid shoves into me with surprising force on her way to the prize.

"Ladies, ladies," Finnick purrs, "I really wish I could. You're all beautiful. But I can't, I've got to mentor this year. Just trying to convince a District 12 assistant to help us out with sponsors here!"

The girls pout and bat their eyelashes. "We'll send Anaya money if you come play with us!" they all squeal.

"I really can't ladies, but please feel free to leave a donation on Level 4 in there and I might get back to you." Finnick winks and there's a mad rush for the door.

In the chaos the girls caused, Finnick and I slip covertly into the crowd and down a side alley. Well, Finnick slipped. I just walked through, safe in my blanket of anonymity. Nobody knows me here anymore.

Suddenly Finnick stops short in front of me and I step on his heels before quickly jumping away. If my official ever hears of violating victor space, let alone _leaving the Games building,_ I am so gone. Gone like my friend, somewhere in the tunnels underneath me, silent forever…

I try to think of something else. We're in a very narrow strip of alley, only a little bit broader than my shoulders. Finnick must be hunching his shoulders in or something, because I don't know how else he snuck in here with all of those muscles. Muscles that could be crushing me dead without anyone knowing, seeing as how secluded we are.

I'm waiting for Finnick to start saying anything to explain this mess that led me _here_, alone with a volatile victor and a questionable conversational topic. But instead of smoothing _anything_ over, from why we were in a secret alley to our suspicious run-ins, he's looking up over my head. I look up too, and gape open-mouthed.

There was Peeta, holding his knife aloft as he hiked along the stream's bank. His image was blown up to giant size, towering above us as I craned my neck upwards. The picture was reversed, showing through the opposite side of the building-sized screen in the City Circle. Through the slim electronic board, half the Capitol was there, staring right at us.

"Relax. They can't see us," Finnick says and I jump. He had switched his gaze from the arena to me, staring at me intently, studying my face.

There's an awkward pause before Finnick begins, "Maren—"

He's cut off by a load uproar from the Capitol a mere few feet away. Up on the screen, Cato and Clove break into a run, charging for a player sitting alone in a rocky stream. Straight to Katniss.

"Cato! Cato!" Peeta is screaming in the distance, but nobody hears him over the sound of breaking sticks and rustling brush. The alliance keeps running, brandishing weapons. Cato has a maniacal grin on his face as he closes in on the stream.

"Katniss! Katniss!" people wail from the City Circle. I can feel the energy rolling off the crowd, imagine the pushing and betting and madness breaking out. But we are safe here, behind the screen in our little alcove.

"Maren, do you know how you felt in the virtual room?"

But I can't take my eyes away from the screen. Katniss is up and sprinting, fleeing the predators that track her down. The camera pans in on Clove's face, contorted in a twisted mix of brutality and delight. There's a smash cut to Katniss, trying as hard as she can to wipe the emotion from her face. It doesn't work, though. There are no secrets on this screen, from this crowd, and we all see the desperation seeping from her eyes. We see it in her panicked breaths, her pumping fists.

"Maren!" Finnick snaps.

"I don't want to… I don't ever want to feel that way again."

"But it happens every day. It's happening on that screen right now," Finnick says, leaning closer and closer towards my face until we're nose to nose.

There is Cato, throwing a spear dangerously far, missing Katniss by miles but showing the crowd what he's prepared to do. And there I am, right behind Katniss, feeling the slippery leaves beneath my feet as I run blindly away. The wall of fire is closing in, trapping me there, face to face with the wink of metal and sun. Katniss launches into a tree, but I'm stuck on the ground, clawing at the rough bark until my fingernails are covered in blood. I'd turn around, feeling the slight breeze as the spear sliced through my neck. Or feel the dry, grasping hands of the tributes grabbing me and forcing me to the ground. Clove working away with the cool, shiny knives.

My knees buckle and I fall against the screen, half expecting the whole thing to come tumbling down, but it doesn't. It stands strong, pinning me to the Games. I imagine how I look, splayed out onto the arena as if I were really there, under the giant feet of the players, stomped down to nothing as everyone watched.

I'm breathing heavily, the rise and fall of my chest matching those of the alliance panting in a tight circle around the tree.

"That's you, Maren. That's you under the foot of the Capitol every minute of every day," Finnick whispers over the roar of the cheering crowd. He's grabbing the material of my assistant's uniform, and the tiny space between us smells like sweat and salt. What blood probably tastes like.

Katniss climbs higher and higher, taunting the alliance high above their heads. Peeta stands behind them, breathing in and out raggedly. He's pulling at his knife handle, tugging at his clothes. As he grabs fistfuls of his black jacket covered in deep red stains, I feel the pull on my own clothes as Finnick stares me down.

"I'm not under them! I'm not their slave!" I shout, and gather all my hatred and force it into my arms. Finnick reels backwards, letting go of my shirt before it tears. I'm expecting pain, I'm anticipating that taste of blood, but nothing follows through. Finnick takes a step forward as laughter and cheers spill out from the crowd in front of us.

"You don't have to be. You don't have to be under them anymore," he says.

Katniss is climbing higher and higher, and I know the cool breeze she feels as the pine boughs thin around her. I know it, yet I've never really had it.

Thoughts are tumbling around in my head, feelings about children and murder and family pushing against the cracks I've been suppressing for eight years. Anaya circles the tree as everything races around my mind. I'm not under anyone, I'm not, I'm not, I'm not, but the only thing that comes out to Finnick is, "How?"

Cato tumbles through the thick branches as Finnick leans down close to my ear. "You have to want to keep those people alive."

"But I already am! That's my job. I have to do that—"

"Show me," he says simply. And he slips a crinkled piece of evaporating paper into my palm.

There's more deafening laughter as Katniss waves an arrow high above the alliance's reach. I unfurl the paper, which simply says in scrawled handwriting, 'leave 1 out.'

"You want me to make sure District 1 doesn't get any sponsor shares?" I ask. The only reply is the booming voice of Claudius Templesmith. I look up, but the tiny alley is empty. Peeta stares out into the space beside me, his hands shaking as he slowly spins his knife in its sheath.


	12. Evaporating

"Hey! Cassie, man! Hey," shouts an unfamiliar voice as I stumble out of the labyrinthine alleys leading into the City Circle. "We missed you at the party, man."

I spin around to see a guy, probably a couple years younger than me. He's waving his drink in the air, a pleasant, buzzed expression over his face. He's just another guy enjoying the Games, mistaking me for one of his friends.

"Come on, man," he says into my face. He breath smells only slightly of champagne, but I push away from him as if he were raging drunk. As if he were worse than Mr. Abernathy. But how can that be?

I trip backwards over the cobblestones, trying to get away from the partying scene in front of me. I can't shake what Finnick was trying to press on me. There Katniss is on the giant screen, smiling tauntingly down at the alliance beneath her feet. Everyone in the Circle laughs and points, enjoying the show she's putting on. I want to see it too, but the scene just looks… different. I see the worry behind Katniss's bravery. I see the menace behind Cato's too-stretched smile. Everyone is winding up for a fantastic show tonight, but I just feel myself spiraling down for blood.

Pushing through the crowd, I realize how different I really am from them. I used to be here, drinking and laughing, cheering for the Games. But I haven't been for years. Eight long, miserable years, pulled away from everyone else, my brain slowly melding into the District's thoughts.

_Not the District's thoughts_, I remind myself. I can still feel the yearning to be included in all of this. I can't have it anymore, but the want is there. What the Capitol did to me—they gave me a whole new blend of thoughts and ideas. A new class, separate from the Capitol and the Districts, pinging around for a side to land on. A cold drip runs itself down my spine, as if an old friend tipped a glass of champagne down my back. The thought seems dangerous to me: What can be done with a Panem mutt? I feel the answer weighted heavily in the paper I carry crushed in my fist.

Before I can gather my thoughts one bit, I'm inside the cool ventilation of the Games Headquarters, stumbling out of the elevator all the way up on Level 12. I place my hand on the tiny window overlooking the City Circle, feeling the vibrations of the pumping dance music that is muffled by the thick glass and silencing electronics embedded in the building walls. Everyone down below looks like a miniature doll, so distant from the pain and sorrow seeping through the floors of HQ.

I push the doors to the control room open, slipping in and settling into the dark corners. Mr. Chaff is gone, but there is Mr. Abernathy, glaring at me as he presses a telephone tightly against his ear.

"Yes, open 12's hatch. I'm sending something in," he says, enunciating each word directly into the mouthpiece, as if he needs to make sure the Gamemaker on the other end can understand him. Mr. Abernathy listens for a beat to the voice flowing through the wiring. "No," he says curtly, then slams the phone into the receiver on the wall.

He sweeps past me, ripping open the rusty door to the portation bay. I just see the tube of medicine he's been clutching in his hands before he places it carefully in the center of the dish and then bangs the metal doors closed once more. The portation bay beeps immediately.

Mr. Abernathy straightens up, finding my eyes in the corner and staring straight through to my secrets underneath. On the darkening arena screens across from me, Katniss begins sawing away at a branch high in her tree. Mr. Abernathy turns away immediately and sinks into his chair in front of the screen. He's got his fingers in his mouth, gnawing away at the tips of his recently-cleaned fingernails as the camera switches from the tracker jacker nest—_ugh_—to Peeta and back up to Katniss. For half a minute, all we can hear in the control room is the muffled sawing of the tough bark. Then the phone rings shrilly, making me jump.

Mr. Abernathy reaches for it immediately, worry etched into his features.

"Did you get the gift?" he says anxiously. "Oh." His face drops to annoyance as soon as he hears the voice on the other end. "I don't have time for this."

He's moving to hang up the phone, but whatever the person says makes him stop. There's a long pause as Mr. Abernathy's face moves closer and closer to anger.

"What were you thinking, Finnick—no really. What could possibly be running around in that tiny little brain of yours that could shed some light on this?"

Sweat breaks out on my forehead and palms and the tiny, evaporating note begins to disintegrate in my damp fist. There's another agonizingly long stretch of silence on Mr. Abernathy's end.

"Well, that's interesting," he says. My heart beat accelerates and I expect his eyes to cut to me, but they don't.

"Somehow I don't think that's going to be a problem after tonight."

Mr. Abernathy watches Katniss apply the tube of medication to her burns on screen as he chews on the inside of his cheek thoughtfully.

"I'm really sorry to hear about District 9's loss."

Pause. Pause. Pause. My breathing slows some. It seems like they've gotten off any topic of me. Maybe they weren't even talking about me. Just this stuff about leaving sponsor help out of the alliance. Or something.

"I understand. Alright. I'll keep an eye out," he says as he lowers the telephone softly into the receiver.

I push back farther against the wall, but Mr. Abernathy only watches as Katniss settles into her sleeping bag. He doesn't look worried, or angered, or anything in that matter. He just watches.

Down below in the arena, the pack discusses who gets first watch.

"I'll do it," Peeta says steadily. Clove turns on him, laughing as she scoffs.

"As if we'd trust you for this, Lover Boy," she sneers, shoving him hard in the chest.

Peeta steps forward angrily, clutching his knife in his hands, but Clove pulls out her own knife.

"How about I take first watch," Anaya speaks up from the base of the tree. She says it sturdily, as if it's already decided. Cato and Marvel nod their heads and begin piling up needles and leaves for pillows. Anaya assumes her stance at the base of the tree. "That be all right with you, Lover Boy?" she catcalls. Peeta ignores her.

"It's freezing out here. Somebody should go back and get our sleeping bags," Glimmer calls from her position on the hard, cold ground. They all look at one another, but nobody volunteers to leave the tree.

"We don't need anything," Cato says hungrily as he stares up through the branches at Katniss's dark form. Nobody retorts on this fact, and so they all hunker down for the night, Anaya hugging her shoulders as she leans against the tree.

There it is again. That silence that has been following me around the control room for eight years; Mr. Abernathy getting drunk in the corner as I try not to get in his way, the only sound breaking the monotony being the wind whistling through the arena mics. Only tonight, there's something strained and impatient about it.

I finger the crumpled, slightly disintegrated evaporating paper in my hands. Is he waiting for me?

"Sir—Mr. Abernathy," I whisper. He looks up at me blankly. Like he doesn't care what I'm about to say, like he already knows everything I know.

I take a deep breath. "Mr. Finnick gave this to me this afternoon," I say more clearly. "I think he meant for me to give it to you."

Mr. Abernathy doesn't move to take it from my hands, so I walk over and plop the note hastily onto the control panel in front of him. He doesn't even pick it up, just stares at me as I scuttle back into the corner of the room.

"Looks like Finnick made some kind of impression on you," he finally says.

So he _does_ know already. Finnick probably told him everything. Then why did he need to give me a note? Was this some sort of twisted test? And if so, a test for _what?_

"He was… He was confusing."

"Hm," is all Mr. Abernathy says in return.

Normally I wouldn't say anything else. I'd leave it at that, never questioning the Districts' odd behavior. But something pushed me forward.

"Are you really going to—" I stopped for a second as Mr. Abernathy tensed up, leaning forward in his chair. "Are you really going to take District 1 out of the sponsorship deals?" If one tribute was having a particularly bad time in the Games, I've seen other Districts in alliances pool together their donations to help out another.

Mr. Abernathy leans back an almost imperceptible inch in his chair. "We didn't really get the right vibe from their mentors this year," he says casually.

I think of Ms. Satin, pushing all the boundaries of my notions of victors and the looks from her cutting, searching eyes. "Oh," is all I say.

"Get some sleep. I'm going to need you tomorrow," Mr. Abernathy says gruffly. He picks up a half empty wine bottle and pours the remaining contents over the note. He watches the paper particles disappear for a moment, then turns his attention back to the screens.

All night I'm kept awake by the sounds of biting fingernails as Mr. Abernathy gnaws his fingers until they bleed.


	13. Anaya

It's ghostly quiet, the moonlight floating thinly in from the tiny window. I slip carefully off my creaking cot, pausing for a moment in the dark shadows, the cool of the metal floor soaking into my bones. Mr. Abernathy is asleep face down in a puddle of drool, his back rising and falling silently as the whistling of the wind from the arena continues to blow around the room. There's no snoring, no shouts, no tinkling of party glasses. For the first time in a long while, I feel truly alone, sealed up in muffled bottle. No one cheers or dances through the outline of the lobby doors. The neat line of betting comps and donating slips twinkle in the blue-tinged darkness, finally left alone. I imagine this is what it must feel like for Mr. Abernathy all these years, passed out and dead to the world as his tributes sink to the ground, the screens blinking off one by one in the night until nothing living remains.

A hovercraft slices through the thin film of light streaming in, blocking the moon and blinking the control room black for just a moment. I move towards the window, where down below tiny dots twirl silently in the brightly-lit streets. The glow from the lamps gradually fades as I trace up the windows of the Training Center next door, all the way up to the twelfth floor, resting quietly at eye level. Something flickers in the reflection of the control panel in the dark, lifeless windows.

I turn around and there is Peeta, bathed in the projection of the same moonlight glowing softly around me. He's crawling stealthily out of his blanket of pine needles and brush, the dead leaves shushing softly as they slide to the ground. His face looks almost serene in the dim light of the night skies, the stars twinkling in his wide eyes as he looks up to the bundled lump swinging slightly in the pine tree. His skin is dirt-streaked and long burns peek through the tattered rips of his shirt and pants; dust knots in his pale hair and trails of white, clean skin run through his muddy cheeks like tear tracks. He looks lost and helpless, but his voice cuts through the night, drifting on the wind up to the high branches of the tree as the whisper floats around the control room. "_Katnissss_," it hushes, dancing around the still form twirling restlessly in her slumber.

The sound takes me back, back to a different day under a different moon. A moon existing before the world turned over and revealed its ugly atrocities hidden in deep shadows. I was alone in my room, the bed across from me vacant and cold. "_Mareeennn_," sang a voice buried deep in the dark. A disembodied hand clamped over my mouth, the calluses and scars tracing familiar patterns on my lips. My father leaned down through the shadows, his whispers quiet but cutting as he clutched my hand determinedly. "Come with me to the forest," he begged, "we'll finally be free." The last word still echoed through my tired brain as his hand was wrenched from my mouth, the outline of his feet kicking wildly as black-clad figures dragged him away, moving nimbly through my familiar apartment and then disappearing into the lonely shadows on the streets. They questioned me for days, demanded where he was going, replayed the same tape over and over, the one of his screams piercing the night before they cut off jaggedly forever. I wanted to tell them, anything to make the screams stop, but how could I when I never knew? He was always gone. He took my brother away from our indebted little apartment on the shady outskirts of the city, leaving me behind. I never knew my father cared, his absence stinging every day before he returned for the last time.

I fall back onto the cot, tears rolling hotly down my cool skin just as they had the night they ripped my father away, taking him away the only time I thought he truly wanted me back.

Instead of crying the way a weak-kneed nobody would once the Capitol decides to tear the mask off its evil face, Peeta's face is clear and intent. He's circling the trees all around the tiny grove, testing low-hanging branches and peering up through the labyrinth of leaves. As Peeta wanders farther into the trees, Anaya, propped up against the trunk of Katniss's safe base, snaps her eyes open. Sleepy clouds clear from her head instantly, her green eyes sharp as she scans her surroundings. Her eyes widen once she finds Peeta in the darkness, his back turned to her. The stars reflect on her shiny-green eyes, but not the way they did for Peeta. On her, the constellations turn cold, hardening into distant, abandoned pricks of light.

Anaya slips away from the tree, the rough bark clinging to the fabric of her jacket, tearing at the frayed threads and widening them into gaping holes. She sidles up behind Peeta, matching her footsteps to his, always keeping her shadow inside Peeta's. Peeta stops at the base of a tree close to Katniss's, and the camera flicks upward for a moment as they show the bright, worried eyes of tiny Rue peeking down through the branches. Slowly, carefully, Peeta inches his knife from its sheath. He positions his feet, getting ready to turn—

Anaya pounces on him, pinning his right arm to the tree, squeezing his wrist until he drops the knife and it skitters to the forest floor. Peeta, suspended a few inches off the ground, swings his feet in the air, but Anaya drops him heavily back onto the brush-strewn floor and presses her hips tightly against his thighs, stilling his heavy kicks.

"_Shhhh_," she hisses, "they'll hear you."

Peeta opens his mouth but Anaya slaps her palm over it. "Are you crazy?" she says. Peeta's eyebrows raise, his breath visible in the cold through Anaya's fingers. "They'll come after us."

She glances behind her towards the pack's campout, breathing heavily. When her head is turned, Peeta tries to wriggle out from behind her body, but Anaya whips her head back around, digging her elbows into his ribs. Peeta lets out a groan of pain and Anaya presses her palm more sharply into his mouth. "_Peeta_," she says more urgently, "I want to help you."

Peeta stares suspiciously into her eyes, searching for anything hidden under her words. His breath come out in a large puff of white vapor, floating into the pine branches. Gradually, gradually, Anaya pulls her hand away from Peeta's mouth, ready to leap into action if he looked about to yell.

It's quiet for a beat. Peeta surveys the sleeping forms of the alliance, then bends down closer to Anaya's ear. "Why?" he says softly, the little white cloud of his breath getting tangled in her dark, mud-streaked hair.

Anaya exhales. "They want to kill you."

"I know," Peeta breathes. It's quiet for a moment again.

"I think we'll last longer together," Anaya says.

"You do." Peeta's voice is flat.

Anaya pulls away from Peeta, finally allowing him room to escape. She puts her arms around his neck and pulls him down until his ear is level with her blood-red lips.

"I know you want to be with her," she whispers. Her lips brush against the knotty strands of hair matted down over the tips of his ears. Peeta stiffens, trying to yank himself away from Anaya's firm grasp. Anaya lets go after a moment, smiling as Peeta pushes her backwards and steps away from the tree.

"What's in it for you?" he says. Anaya just laughs softly through a closed-lip smile.

"I'd say this is more about what happens to you if they ever find out what you're really up to."

"I think they already do know."

Anaya drops her smile and glares coldly up at the blue eyes shining in the darkness. "They're done playing around! They're going to get her on their own. Without you."

Peeta takes another step away and Anaya moves to pin him down again, but Peeta is too fast this time. He slams her against the rough bark of the tree, his grimy fingernails digging into her skin. "She's already up there and we're all down here. It's already done."

"I can help," she says softly.

Peeta lets her go abruptly and she slides down the base of the tree. He walks away, careful to be as silent as he can as he slips back into his spot, staring up at the bundle of sleeping bag in the tree. Anaya picks herself up off the cold ground, making sure to brush off every last scrap of brush from her clothes. "Suit yourself, Lover Boy," she says quietly to herself before shoving Glimmer awake for watch and curling up to sleep right at the base of Katniss's tree.


	14. Venom

I settle in to my very numbered expensive eat-outs in the control room, out in the open in a control seat instead of tucked away into a corner as is usually my custom around Mr. Abernathy. Today it's a steaming bowl full of spicy vegetables that leaves my mouth in flames, mixed in with a bright orange sauce that leaves my fingers stained yellow. The cook I ordered it from had told me this was one of their special Games dinners: instead of civilized forks and spoons, they handed over tiny flat triangles they called "Peeta bread" that we're supposed to dip into the sauce.

When he first handed me the bread basket, I had peeked under the warm cloth incredulously. "Peeta bread? Like after District 12?"

"'eah, 'eah, pita bread!" the cook had said enthusiastically. "Some old recipe we found. Guess it might be pretty common 'round District 12."

Dining in District 12 would get some getting used to, from what I gather from the meal. But it seemed to perk Mr. Abernathy up. He dug right in, dipping his fingers into the steaming dish as we sat in front of our large split screen. It's still dark outside, and all the tributes look to be dead asleep. Glimmer is slumped over in her watch position against the tree, Cato is face down in a pillow of brown pine needles, his hand clamped around a spear even in deep slumber. Katniss is still up high in her tree. Everyone being featured right now is out like a light… except Peeta. He lies there on his back, his eyes wide open in terror as he stares questioningly at the smearing of stars across the synthetic arena skies.

I tap lightly on the stack of donation slips I gathered from the lobby and placed neatly on the control panel desk. There are tons of things people have stopped by to suggest, from heavy saws to cut Katniss free from her tree to giant parachutes. Mr. Abernathy doesn't even look at them, though. He's saving up for something big to happen. Or "anything half as dim-witted as this load of crap," he had told me, tossing aside some of the electronic slips I'd handed to him.

It's quiet as Mr. Abernathy finishes up his late-night meal, spinning his finger around the bowl to lick up every last bite. I look at the tiny pile of dusty paper particles on his control panel, stained red from wine and scattered around, stuck to buttons or keys. I still don't understand why Finnick gave me that note if it didn't seem to hold any important value, but Mr. Abernathy is mute on the subject. The one time he caught my eying the tiny evaporating bits, he looked away immediately, his eyes flitting around the perimeter of the room for the briefest of seconds. Maybe it's some secret joke among victors: "_let's see how long it takes to get the poor Capitol slave to go crazy, that'd be hi-lar-i-ous, wouldn't it Finnick?" _they'd all ha-ha. It felt real to me, though. Finnick immediacy, the awful places he had me flashing back to—

Mr. Abernathy clears his throat hurriedly with a loud _hem hem_ and my thoughts are scattered. On our private screen, Katniss is crawling out of her sleeping bag, knife in hand. Her cracked lips are set in a line of grim determination.

"Smartest one in a long time," Mr. Abernathy says to me, and I'm startled to hear a touch of pride in his voice. All I feel is a tiny knot of tension deep in my gut.

As Katniss saws away at the branch with the nest, the tiny gold bodies of the tracker jackers send a wave of disgust through me. They showed me videos about them—they, the black-clad figures who had stolen my father—when they questioned me. The little stingers filled with potent toxins, the screams they played over and over as victims sweated out their torture. They used to play the mutt's distant buzzing in my cell as they interrogated, just loud enough to itch and burrow under my skin.

I close my eyes for a few seconds, and when I open them, there is complete chaos. The nest hits the ground and bursts open, a wave of golden wings taking flight. I can hear the buzzing as if they were in the room with me. Anaya, cuddled up at the base of the tree, jerks awake, the green of her eyes blocked with shimmery, shiny gold bees. The wall of mutts rear up and descend on her immediately, leaving giant purple bumps on any skin they can reach. Anaya shrieks and scrabbles back onto her hands, kicking her feet out in a hopeless attempt to block the mutts out. Her arms are twice their normal size as she finally staggers to her feet. The rest of her pact are screaming, running full speed away as they shout, "To the lake! To the lake!"

Anaya takes a step forward, then another. The toxins already look to be coursing through her; her eyes are crazed, her feet take her in half circles as she moves farther and farther from the tree. Finally, her knees buckle out from underneath her and she crumbles to the ground, her swollen limbs splayed out in every direction.

Mr. Abernathy, seemingly unfazed by the whole scene, clicks a button and the screen zooms away from Anaya, rocketing over to Peeta and the pack as they crash blindly through the trees. Peeta's feet land in random directions as he runs and his arms swing crazily at his sides. Ahead of him, Cato, Marvel, and Clove are already almost to the lake. Peeta lags behind, but with every heaving intake of breath, he chokes out the name of the girl on fire. His feet smash into the ground to the rhythm of his chants, pulling him up beside the pact with every "Kat-niss—Kat-niss."

They all dive into the lake, Cato thrashing and pushing heads under in his fit to get away from the tracker jackers. Peeta takes a kick to the gut as Cato flails about in the water, and he sinks out of sight for a minute in the murky lake.

I look over to see Mr. Abernathy gripping his wine bottle so hard his fist has turned white, but he's not watching Peeta's side of the screen. Instead, he's fixated on the hyperventilating, deranged Katniss as she digs under the dying District 1 tribute for weapons. With each tug of flesh and bone, Katniss stops to heave out dead air, her head probably swimming with the noxious fumes I know leak from the oozing stings.

Over the dying screams of Anaya and the shouts of the tributes on our wallscreen, I hear Claudius Templesmith's voice drift from the official airtime, tinged with worry and excitement. "She's racking up the odds against her this time. Can she make it away from the alliance, Panem?"

I whip my head back towards Peeta's screen, and sure enough, there is the pack, crawling through mud and water towards the lake's banks. "We have to get her! Back to the tree!" Cato splutters, his eyelids twitching oddly as he struggles to shore.

Peeta, already laying face down on the muddy banks of the lake, jerks up and dives for Cato. "No!" he screams, landing flat on Cato's back and flattening him into the sandy bottom of the lake two feet under water. Clove launches herself at Peeta, digging her fingernails into his eye sockets. Peeta is momentarily distracted as he twists out of Clove's grasp, and Cato rears up and knocks Peeta from his back altogether. Peeta hits the surface of the water but immediately pops back up, slipping up the steep bank and sprinting away back towards Katniss.

"Get him! We're going to kill both of them!" Cato roars, but his reflexes are slower than normal. The tracker jacker venom is taking its toll, giving Peeta precious seconds as Cato staggers to his feet. "Clove! Clove!" he calls, but Clove is unresponsive. She's lying in the mud in fetal position, her hands clamped over swollen ears. Cato doesn't even stop to drag her all the way out of the water, just takes off after Peeta.

As the screen follows Cato and Peeta through the woods, Mr. Abernathy is clutching his bottle tighter than ever. "Shit, shit, shit," he says under his breath. "Shit!"

As Peeta reaches Katniss at her tree, the wallscreen melds into one giant picture. I can't help noticing Anaya's decaying body in the corner of the screen. Her face is distorted beyond recognition, those blood red lips broken and twisted, blooming purple with new stings. In places along her body with multiple stings, the flesh is sagging, the skin stretched out and tearing as it falls away from muscle and bone. Worst of all, though, are her dead eyes; the irises are tinged a striking deep red, giving the impression of a new breed of deranged mutt, sinking down into the fiery earth.

I'm snapped back to my own tributes as the screen pans away from the tree and follows Katniss streaking crookedly through the trees. I fiddle with a few buttons on my control panel and the screen splits again, Peeta standing ready on his half of the screen as Cato looms toward him. It's clear both of their mental capabilities are slipping quickly: Both of their eyes dart around in their sockets and their feet carry them in crazed half-circles over the ground.

Peeta lunges first, his sword missing Cato by whole feet. The momentum slams him into the ground, the packed dirt underneath causing blood to begin spurting from his nose. Cato laughs derisively as he staggers over to Peeta, his own sword swaying in his unsteady hands. "This is the end for _you_, Lover Boy."

Peeta kicks Cato's feet out from under him and Cato comes toppling down over Peeta. Peeta tries to scramble away backwards on his hands, but Cato brings his sword down hard on Peeta's upper thigh, pinning the silver metal into warm flesh. An agonized scream pierces the air and Peeta rolls over on the ground, spit mixing with dirt and blood as his face contorts in pain.

Cato gets to his feet unsteadily and stares for a minute down at Peeta, a huge grin on his face. Peeta manages to throw a knife haphazardly in the direction of Cato, but Cato just dodges it easily and laughs. He turns to leave, splashing through the stream and whooping freely, the sound far from matching the deranged path Cato carves through the forest as the toxins start taking over his system.

Peeta is left moaning on the ground, rolling around as his fingers grab at his thigh. Eventually he manages to pull the sword out from his flesh with violently shaking hands. Slowly, painfully, he gets to his hands and knees, inching forward toward the stream. As he pitches forward into the burbling water, he cries out again. He has to stop and heave up mouthfuls of thick, green bile before he can drag himself up into a crawling position again.

It's quiet for a long stretch of time as Peeta crawls slowly up the stream. I look over and see Mr. Abernathy freely drinking from his wine bottle, already punching down commands for more whiskey to be sent up to Level 12 immediately. Katniss is curled up tight in a ditch somewhere in the arena, shaking and screaming as the venom takes hold of her. I can't believe Mr. Abernathy is just going to ignore Peeta, drinking himself into intoxication as he sits on a bank of donations. But then—what can he do? There's always high volume skin adhesive and a needle and thread, but that would take careful fingerwork: not something a sixteen-year-old boy is capable of filled to the brim with tracker jacker poison. It seems Mr. Abernathy doesn't want to take the risk, spending careful donations on something that might up and die on his anyway.

I fall back against my chair, chewing on my fingernails as I watch Peeta struggle through the stream. It makes it ten times harder, what Finnick said to me. Ever since our rendezvous behind the City Circle, I just… my stomach twists and my heart pounds as I watch the tributes jump through these hoops, my body twisting with imagined pain instead of jumping with excitement like it used to. I want Finnick to come back here and take it all back, laugh as if it were all a joke.

And come Finnick does… crashing out of the elevator and stumbling through Level 12's lobby, ripping at the control room doors as his shoulders shake uncontrollably.


	15. Hard Turns

"Get him a chair," Mr. Abernathy sighs. I hurry to wheel one out from the corner, letting it sit next to Mr. Abernathy. Finnick just continues to stand there, hands over his face and taking great, heaving breaths, so I wheel the chair right up to him and gently push it against the back of his knees until he collapses into the seat.

"I warned you not to mentor this year," Mr. Abernathy finally says.

"She just looked so—so much like Annie," Finnick chokes out brokenly. "I had to—I had to talk to her… and she asked me, Haymitch—to watch for her till the end and—and how could I say no—?" He breaks off into hysterical cries, the heels of his palms pressed tightly against his eyes.

"She's not Annie, Finnick. Annie's safe."

Peeta groans in pain from the arena, adding to the hurt sounds choking out from Finnick. "Turn it off," Finnick moans from in between his fingers. I glance over at Mr. Abernathy, who nods yes, and mute our screens.

It's quiet. Finnick's sobs amplify around the silence and I squirm in my seat, itching to get out of the room. I've never seen a victor so… emotional. They are always so brave and tall, standing with chins up and masks on. They are graceful and commanding, not teary-eyed and jelly-spined. They are like Mr. Abernathy, who even now sits unmoving, tapping the ends of his glasses against his teeth with no expression. A statue with a bitter veneer.

"Finnick." Mr. Abernathy lets his hand fall on the back of Finnick's chair, but Finnick jumps and his shoulders only shake harder. Mr. Abernathy shrugs and reaches for a bottle instead, wrapping his hands around the neck and forcing another one in between Finnick's knees. The two of them just sit there, Mr. Abernathy drinking and Finnick gradually lessening his tears. They don't talk, but the words unspoken between them carry a heavy bond, and I feel like I'm intruding on them just by being in the room. I quietly slip into the shadows, watching Peeta climb silently on screen, crawling slower and slower up rocks and boulders. He's struggling against the tracker jacker venom, sometimes stopping to clap his hands over his ears and other times biting his lips so hard he brings blood.

The pop of a liquor cork and the hiss of alcohol brings my attention back to the victors. Finnick is tentatively drinking from his bottle, hiccupping occasionally as stray tears leak off his chin.

"How about we get you something to eat, eh?" Mr. Abernathy says, his eyes flitting around the corners of the room. He leans down close to pat Finnick on the back and then pulls away, Finnick looking at him oddly as Mr. Abernathy heads for the door. "You too, Maren," he adds, already halfway across the lobby.

"But, your tributes…" My voice fades away as Finnick looks over towards me. I flinch as his green eyes land on mine, the color reminding me of the bloated, broken body dead on the arena floor.

Finnick leans down and plucks a couch cushion from the floor, hugging it to his chest for a moment. "Katniss can't get any help right now," he says softly, pulling at the frayed strands poking out of the cushion lining.

"I know that," I say indignantly, then soften my voice as Finnick shrinks slightly into his chair. "But Peeta…"

"It's not about Peeta," he says in a thick voice, throwing down the couch cushion and getting up to join Mr. Abernathy in the elevator. I pick up the cushion, placing it neatly back in its rightful place on the two-seater across from the wallscreens.

"Maren!" Mr. Abernathy shouts from the elevator. I scurry out to the two of them, feeling trapped as the crystal doors slide shut in front of us. 

* * *

"Evening, Woody," Mr. Abernathy says, slapping the wood of the dining area's order counter.

A tall woman turns toward him, smiling mildly. She looks to be in her mid-thirties, with thick, chestnut hair swinging below her shoulders. "Oh, hello, Haymitch," she says disinterestedly, her voice deep and smooth.

Mr. Abernathy leans his elbows on the counter, his head cocked self-assuredly. "Make that to-go, hm?"

"Really, you're every bit as cocky as you used to be," the woman laughs lightly.

"Do you want to take that rain check today?"

"Now? Shouldn't—?" Mr. Abernathy nods his chin towards Finnick, who is still hiccupping, his eyes puffy and red-rimmed. The woman scans Finnick's face, the corners of her mouth turning downwards. "Of course I'm ready now, dear," she says, touching Finnick's forearm lightly for a moment. Finnick steps back slightly, his head bobbing jerkily from side to side.

"Alright, let's make the donation rounds," Mr. Abernathy says loudly. "I'm sure Effie Trinket's got a mouthful to tell us."

I start to follow Mr. Abernathy and the woman to the main entrance, but we stop when they notice Finnick is still standing by the menu counter, his eyes locked on the elevators. "Maren, get Finnick, would you?" Mr. Abernathy asks impatiently. The woman's gaze flicks over to me for the first time, her eyes turning hard and questioning. I don't make a move to go anywhere, certain I'm about to get reprimanded and sent to the sponsor assistant's quarters. Mr. Abernathy just sighs deeply and grabs Finnick's elbow, marching him ahead of us and out the Games HQ doors. The woman continues to look at me skeptically, but decides against saying anything, simply raising her eyebrows and following the two victors out the door.

The City Circle is alive and packed, just as it was the last time I came out here. I push through the crushing bodies cheering across the open cobblestones, trying to keep up with the victors' fast pace. Mr. Abernathy takes us out of the Circle and through the twisting streets of the Capitol, taking quick turns, sometimes leading us in complete circles. Mr. Abernathy picks up his pace as we pass through District's Alleys, a section of the Capitol roped off for Games festivities every year. Every street in the area displays banners and vendors for each of the Districts, a popular place for betting pools and avid fans to congregate in favorite tribute home towns.

Finally we burst through the end of Alley 12, pieces of red, orange, and gray confetti falling from our clothes and hair, the cloying scent of burning coal still sticking on my skin. It's quieter here, the people ambling across the streets in small streams, waiting for parties and dances to begin elsewhere. Mr. Abernathy stops in the middle of the street and we all gather around him.

"So. Marin, take us to the hiking trails," Mr. Abernathy says softly.

"People here actually use hiking trails?" the woman asks incredulously.

"No," Mr. Abernathy replies. "And that's why we're going there."

They both turn to look at me and I can only nod, eyes wide as I remember it's the last place my father asked me to go with him. A place now probably used for work against the Capitol.


	16. Victor Convention

The candy-colored cobblestone begins to fade, dirt slowly encroaching in the cracks until the path is entirely nature's own. Shrubs turn to apple trees turn to little maples turn to giant pines bursting from the soil on either side. The path is thin and stiff, left alone outside the decades of the city, until finally Mr. Abernathy consults a slip of paper and points us off the trail to the right. Suddenly the thick woods open up to a small field surrounded on all sides, empty but for the circle of people already gathered in its center…

They all sit underneath the gray, swirling clouds, squeezing into the open space only the size of Level 12 back home. There's just about twenty of us altogether, but crowded in the number looks enormous. At first all I see are victors, old and young, but soon I pick out different faces, some surprisingly familiar and others I have never known.

Finnick immediately breaks off, settling legs crossed next to Sal Mari, the District 4 mentor who won several years before him. She glances at his red-rimmed eyes and slips her hand into his, leaning in to whisper in his ear. He sags at her words, shaking his head slightly as he stares down at the grassy floor.

Mr. Abernathy takes a small square out of his pocket and presses a few buttons, staring intently at the screen.

"It's clean. I checked," a large, bearded man says. Colt Veyn, District 10 victor. It takes me a while to recognize him, he won so long ago.

"Can't be too sure," Mr. Abernathy grumbles, slipping the device back into his pocket. He crouches in beside Chaff, looking out at everyone assembled. "That's everyone. Let's get this done quickly."

"What about 1?" shouts a man in a bright purple coat. I have to do a double take, not expecting a Gamemaker to be within our midst.

"One's not coming," Mr. Abernathy replies, glaring across the circle at Finnick, who keeps his head down, picking at shoots of grass. "Down to business. Marin, _sit down_."

I jump, wanting to back up and disappear into the forest now that victors' eyes are all on me. I can't sit between them, act like they do. I don't even know why I'm here!

Woody raises a hand slightly and gestures to the spot next to her, and my stomach takes a grateful swoop. Sitting beside her is the District 7 sponsor assistant, Quentin, the one I used to eat my meals with, when victors seemed pulled under veils for so long…

"What are _they_ doing here?" Colt spits out. I hesitate, hovering above the other sponsor assistant. She's got her eyes closed, head down, all but removed from the group altogether. "They're Capitol slaves."

"Not all of us who work for the Capitol are bad," another man answers quietly. He lifts his head up to smile at me, gold eyeliner shining on dark skin.

"Too right, Cinna, too right," the Gamemaker says jovially. His purple coat waves about wildly as he lifts his hands.

"Aw, shut up, Plutarch, what have you done lately?" Colt grumbles.

"I'll have you know it was a chore just to get out here today! I got the arena built closer to the coast, what—"

"Maren and Quentin are both here because they've proven themselves," Woody interrupts. "We need them. Anyone who thinks they've got access to Games Headquarters before and after the Games, say the word and I'll send the two of them out."

Nobody says a thing. "That's what I thought. Maren, you can take a seat here."

"Alright," Woody says after a beat of silence, "tell me what you know about the Quarter Quell."

"It's two days from 13," Plutarch says.

"By hovercraft?" asks Colt.

"Of course."

"They're keeping the theme under tight wraps, but I've been working on a force field to cover the entire arena in a dome," says a woman with pink-dyed skin and wings grafted into her shoulders.

"We have support from 3, 4, 6, 7, 8, 10, 11, and 12."

"What about 9?"

"They're not able to communicate at this time." I remember seeing the District 9 mentors through the elevator glass, alone and huddled together over bottles of liquor.

"Can we be sure about 12? I haven't seen Haymitch lucid in a while…" Colt says.

"I'm here, goddammit, and more useful than you."

"We want confirmation from only districts positive on their support," Woody says quietly.

The victors and mentors, the Capitol workers and officials, they all glance at each other across the circle. Hushed whispers break out between the two District 10 mentors and everyone turns to look their way. The female mentor is prodding Colt in the back, shaking her head.

"I'm not sure," Colt finally says. "I don't think most of our victors are in agreement." He's looking at his partner as he says this, but she remains in stony silence, staring across the field.

Everyone is quiet, considering the implications in the silence that echoes around the circle.

"We're in, quite definitely," says an ashen-skinned older victor, peering out at the circle through tiny glasses. He's District 3, not a mentor this year, but I can't remember his name.

"Us too," Chaff says. The acquiesces revolve around the circle, the victors' voices steady and deliberate as they look out across their allies. Round the circle it goes, until the last victors left consult each other with locked eyes. "You can count on us," Finnick finally says.

"Alright, that's mostly everybody… is 6 here?" Woody asks.

"They know," Mr. Abernathy puts in. "They're willing to help in the arena."

The answer hangs in the air, everyone looking around at somebody else, waiting for instructions.

Murmurs break out around the circle, quiet conversations budding off between Districts. The talk is completely overwhelming, so blasé about the fact that they're here. That they're openly discussing rebellion. That… I'm here. And I don't want to run screaming from them all. It surprises me most of all, that I don't feel attached to the Capitol anymore. That I'm willing to sit here now.

The talk soars from whispers to shouts as everyone gets more restless. I can't pick out individual conversation anymore, just a roar of dissonant ideas.

"Hey!" Sal finally shouts above the rest. The roar dies does immediately, everyone turning to look at District 4. "We've got our supporters, great," she says, looking at each pair of eyes around the circle. "But how are we going to make sure the right victors get invited back to the Capitol next year?"

"Nobody is coming here next year if they can't handle it," Finnick says definitively. The puffy, red eyes I've just seen in the Capitol are hardened here, set on whatever goal Finnick sees in the future.

"That's why we've got these two here." Woody points to the other sponsor assistant and me, everyone's eyes following. "Quentin was able to get herself into the Victor's Committee this year. They're the ones that poll the Capitol and tally which victors are guests and which can be mentors any given year. They govern who enters and who can't enter the Headquarters every year."

"And?" Sal asked.

"And," Woody inhales, "_and_ she's gotten a lot of us here today. How many of you would be stuck at… stuck with the Capitol's command back in the city right now?"

Colt shifts on the ground, leaning forward to lay a hand on Quentin's shoulder. "It means a lot to us." Quentin jerks up, body stiff but a small grin playing at the corners of her mouth.

"But why is he here?" Sal jabs her finger at me.

"And now that we've got Maren," Woody continues, "we think he can help us pass word around."

"But why a Capitol slave? Why not one of us? It's a risk," Sal says.

"Because he's invisible. He can move through the building undetected. He does what he's told, and he blends into the background. I forget he's there," Mr. Abernathy speaks up. "And I'm positive he can get the job done. If he thinks he can."

All eyes are on me. "I…" I imagine my father, pulled away from me in the dead of night, forever. I gather all of the terror and hatred I've been pushing down for eight years, and I bring them together into one powerful feeling that surprises me in its intensity.

"I want to help bring the Capitol down."

"Then we've got another Capitol spy," Cinna says to me with a smile, and the small circle applauses around me, clapping each other on the back and grinning at one another.

After a few minutes the circle breaks off into twos and threes, a few people at a time disappearing into the woods all around the field. Cinna leaves with his stylist partner, District 10 mentors leave with slight frowns. Chaff says his goodbyes to Mr. Abernathy before vanishing with the District 3 victor at his side. Soon all that's left is Mr. Abernathy, me, and District 4.

Finnick comes towards us, his old swagger returning as the circle dissipates. "Care for company up on 12?" he says with a wink.

"Yeah, whatever. Just leave me alone," Mr. Abernathy grumbles.


	17. You Are

**I loved writing this scene, I don't know why. It's one of my favorites. :)**

* * *

"Haymitch."

"Leave me alone."

"Haymitch!"

"I'm throwing you out if you talk to me again."

Finnick widens his eyes and frowns his lips exaggeratedly, playing with the control panels at Mr. Abernathy's seat. He's got our wallscreen flipped upside-down, so little Rue seems to be doing handstands on the pine branches outside the lake camp. Sal sits next to him, laughing as she turns the sky green and the leaves blue. Finnick retaliates, changing the dark brown bark of the tree and Rue's soft skin bright orange.

I watch Rue pull herself into the tree, her image distorted and splashed in rainbows of color. She climbs higher and higher, unaware of the flashing changes to the screen, blind to the thousands of people watching her every move. Her luminescent eyes poke out between the leaves, taking in the pyramid of rainbow food, the whites of her eyes turned bright red as Sal turns a knob on her control panel. The effect reminds me too much of the girl broken at the base of the tree, venom coursing through her veins to dye her irises blood red…

I press the heels of my palm into my eyes, trying to shake the image. I've spent twenty years watching the Games, but this is the first death that's affected me so. Is there something wrong with me? Why can't I shake the image from my head?

The colors must strike Finnick too, because he shuts down the changes and switches the screen, turning his back as District 5's Callide pops right-side up to take Rue's place on the wall. He rolls right up to Mr. Abernathy, who is sprawled out on his cot, blankets tangled around his legs.

"Haymitch."

"I'm trying to sleep, for crissakes," he says, flipping over and smooshing a pillow over his head.

"I just wanted to ask you—"

Mr. Abernathy swipes his pillow through the air, not even looking as he catches Finnick directly in the face. Sal laughs as Finnick's eyebrows furrow and he raises the pillow for a counterattack. "Come on, let him get his beauty sleep," she says, catching Finnick's raised arms and wheeling him back towards the far wall.

"Wow, you've got quite a stack of donation slips," Sal calls from across the room. "Mind if we look through them?" I don't know if she means for me to answer or if she's asking Mr. Abernathy, so I just duck my head down and study the handheld screen in my lap. There's rustling and clanking from the far desk, so I assume she decided to help herself.

"Remember the year we were mentors together and we had that huge pile of donation slips?" she asks quietly.

I hear Finnick chuckle and scoot his chair closer to the desk. "Some of the things people thought up were ridiculous."

"There was that one when Piscis was stuck on the mountaintop, remember that? And someone actually wanted us to send in a 500 meter long inflatable slide."

"I think my personal favorite for Piscis was the 300 meter pole vaulting stick," Finnick laughs. "I had to ask one of the assistants what a pole vault was. Who would think of jumping down a mountainside with a long stick?"

It's quiet for awhile as they flip through the electronic papers. The thin films stop rustling for a moment and one of their chairs gives a creak as if they were leaning back. "Is Piscis in the Capitol as a guest this year?" Sal asked.

Finnick takes a long time to reply. I stare at the screen in my hands unseeingly, waiting for an answer. "Of course she is," he finally says softly. I don't have to look up to know there is sadness etched into his features. The chairs creak again and after a moment they go back to flipping through the donation slips.

I trace the plastic covering of the screen in my hands, wishing I could use just one of those slips for the boy crawling around the handheld video in my lap. It's been hours since Peeta's been injected with venom, yet he's still moving forward. He's crouched under a boulder in the stream, biting his hand until he draws blood as he props his leg up under the small trickle of water, washing away the buckets of red that still pour freely from his wound.

"_No no_ _nono no nonono_!" he shouts suddenly, clamping his bleeding hands over his ears. Tremors rack his body and he rocks back and forth. "_It's notreal it's notreal it's notreal,_" he chants over and over, trying to bring himself back to reality.

I glance up at Mr. Abernathy, his hands clutched tightly against the sheets, his face buried in his pillow. How could he leave someone like this? Katniss lays huddled in a ditch, trapped in only her subconscious as the venom consumes her mind. But Peeta… he fights to bring the fear to reality, to mix the pain and the terror with real memories until it will probably lay seared on his brain for eternity. And yet Mr. Abernathy has the arena tracker tapped to alert him to Katniss's muscle movement and conscious brain activity, ready to jump up at the slightest come around.

The venom eases its grip on Peeta's mind for the moment and he tips forward, choking and spluttering as he tries to push himself up out of the stream. The coughs tangle themselves with muffled screams as the effort to lift himself bangs the gash in his thigh against a boulder. He pulls away jerkily and blacks out for a moment, tipping backwards, but he shakes himself to reality at the last moment, his fingertips digging at the rock. Peeta takes a shaky breath and tries to rub the blood away from the rock, smearing it farther than before. It must look okay in his mind, because he wipes the sweat from his face with his red hands and continues forward. A streak of blood dries on his cheeks and across his nose like war paint.

I drag my fingers away from the microphone film, silencing the groans of agony spilling into the microchips on my fingertips and traveling all the way up to my brain. It's too real to listen to anymore. I can't imagine how I'd toasted champagne to this only several years before.

It's another hour and a coffee run and Peeta's only managed a few hundred meters. He's propped up against the bank of the stream, mud caked up and down his legs and arms. I brush my fingertips across the micfilm and only hear the rush of the water, roaring over the sound of the deep rise and fall of Peeta's chest. He's gritting his teeth hard, fingernails digging into flesh as he struggles to surface to reality again.

The roar of the stream dies down for a moment and Peeta snaps his eyes open, the blue of his eyes bright against the dark red and brown ground into his features. "It's real it's real _it'sreallll…"_ he sings to himself eerily, staggering to his hands and knees again. The water dies down to all but a quiet babble and his voice carries strangely across the arena mics. He stumbles and collapses into the mud and vines, closing his eyes but continuing to move his lips, "_it's real it's reallll…"_ until he finally lets the venom take over as he clamps his hands over his ears.

"Is he alive?" The voice blows against my neck and I snap straight in my chair, the sound cutting off dissonantly as my hands pull away from the microphone film. I turn around and there is Finnick, his green-flecked eyes startlingly close to my own.

"For now," I say quietly. I'm surprised to see Sal curled up under blankets on the floor next to Mr. Abernathy, their backs rising and falling at the same pace. How long has Finnick been standing behind me?

Finnick pulls up and puts his hands against his hips, surveying the room. From all that's happened since the virtual room, it feels almost normal to be so casually close to a victor.

"Finnick," I say hesitantly, and he looks over at me.

"I was just wondering…" My voice trails off for a moment but Finnick makes no move to interrupt me. "What were you going to ask Mr. Abernathy?"

"Haymitch?" he asks, reaching to muss his hair. He exhales deeply and I expect he's not going to answer me.

"I just wanted him to tell me I was okay as a mentor," he finally says, looking away at the floor.

I want to tell him he did fine, but it feels wrong on my tongue. I just turn back to my handheld screen and Finnick returns to Sal's side, pulling sheets down from Mr. Abernathy's cot as wrapping himself up in the cocoon.


	18. Flooded

I find myself being shaken awake, my neck stiff and the pattern of the controller's chair indented on my cheek. Something tickles my forehead and as I finally open my eyes, there is Sal's face, only inches from my own. Her long, dark blond hair spills over her shoulders and hangs in soft waves against my face. I jump about a mile high, pushing myself back into the chair. I've never been this close to a victor before and the proximity feels too intimate, but at the same time I can't help noticing the brightness in her eyes and the splash of freckles scattered across her pert nose. Just a short few years ago I remember the way men would clamor for betting rights and visitation tickets all for the District 4 tribute standing in front of me today.

She blinks and her lashes flutter against her cheeks. "Are you okay?" Tiny lines form between her eyes as she wrinkles her nose questioningly. My back is straining against the chair and my heart is still beating loudly after the surprising wake up. I don't want to say anything, afraid my voice will embarrass me.

Finnick's face appears next to Sal's as he crouches next to my chair. "Is he awake? What's the matter?" So close together, the two District 4 mentors look like brother and sister. Their nearly-blond hair match almost perfectly in shade; green eyes shine against equally tan skin.

Sal turns to him and laughs. "Nothing, I just scared him a bit." There's a pause as they both turn back to me, but I say nothing. "We were just about to head out," Sal finally says, getting to her feet. "Right Finnick?"

"Yeah," he says as he extends his hand, "it was nice seeing you, Maren." A small square of paper presses into my palm as he pumps my hand up and down and I struggle to keep my face impassive. "You won't miss us_ too_ bad, will you?"

I nod and squeeze his hand twice, to say _yes, I got the message, deliver to District 2,_ and he smiles before he drops my hand.

Sal is already at the control room doors, pushing them open slightly as she waits for Finnick. "I hope we didn't annoy you too much," she says.

They're both almost out the door before Finnick stops and turns around for a moment. "Let him alone for a while," he says softly as he gestures to the far corner of the room. I follow his gaze to see Mr. Abernathy splayed out on his cot, liquor bottles scattered around and on top of him. When I turn back to the door, the victors are gone.

I slide the note discreetly into my jacket pocket and frown down at my handheld videoscreen. It's gone dead, the batteries run down as I slept. I flip the top open and set it on the desk near the little window, letting the early morning rays rejuvenate the screen. Soon bits and pieces of the digital arena start popping up,, greens and browns sliding into place like puzzle pieces. The last sandy-blond pixel fills in the screen as the arena trackers focus on a dirt-encrusted boy, eyes shut tight to the world and hands clenched around dug up vines and mud. I run my thumb over the tiny boy in my hands, watching him shake in the early morning chill.

He's not singing his eerie tune anymore, but the silence feels worse than that. I wonder what fears a tracker jacker would stir up for a young boy from the Districts. I know virtually nothing of life outside the Capitol. Is he seeing a skin-dye gone wrong? Wrong clothes at a party? I close my eyes and concentrate on images of scared, emaciated children in the City Circle. Is it slow starvation that he sees locked up inside his mind? Does he watch his repeated death in the arena, blood spattered a million different ways across the crafted floors…?

I want to run over to the scattered stack of donation slips and reimburse as many as I can to help Peeta. I want to work through each of the fantastical and make them a reality for the tribute, but I don't. Mr. Abernathy was rigid on his, and only his, involvement with donations. And he only has eyes for Katniss's survival.

As if on cue, Katniss lets out a frail, frightened moan from our wallscreen. There she is, curled up on her side in a shallow ditch, digging fingers against clothes and knees until her flesh turns white. Below the screen, Mr. Abernathy lets out a moan of his own, drug-induced but still radiating the echo of pain that crosses Katniss's face. Slowly, I back out of the control room, feeling so out of place in a space filled with poison. 

* * *

I ride all the way down to the dining hall basement, my heart rate rising as I shoot past Level 2. I remember Brad, District 2 mentor, all bulky six and a half feet of him.

As soon as I step off the elevator, I'm immediately assaulted by the new atmosphere around me. Almost overnight, the dining hall has gone from ghost town to bustling. The voices of all the victors and mentors bounce around the room, echoing in the cavernous room as one. There is Ms. Satin and a few of her victor friends gathered around a telescreen, applauding as they rewatch scenes from the initial fight-off this season. Mr. Abernathy's friend Chaff stuffs some kind of orange-sauced roast into his mouth as he gestures wildly to a group of 3 and 11 victors grouped around a few tables shoved together near the virtual room. Orange spews out of his mouth as he reaches the crescendo of his tale, everyone letting out a loud guffaw that spreads around the hall as an older man wipes it off his glasses. Sal and Finnick stand next to the menu counter, plate upon plate of fish lined up neatly in a row. They both laugh as they cup their hands over the eyes of a few victors from 5, cheering as the victors blindly take bites and holler guesses as to what they're eating. A group of old men from 10 and 8 sit and argue in the corner.

I breathe a sigh of relief as I finally spot Brad's hulking figure, alone at the bar screens, sipping from a large glass of murky liquid as he watches a tribute channel. I make my way to his counter slowly, feeling the weight of the paper buried in my plain blue work tunic. Carefully I slip onto a stool two down from Brad and look around; nobody is watching me. None of the victors care that I am here, haven't acknowledged my presence at all. Brad continues to sip at his drink, eyes glued to the screen.

He's got his whole area rigged to play District 5's tribute channel, each screen around him showing slightly different angles of the same tribute, over and over again. Right above me, the camera points head on at Callide as she steels silently closer to the bank of a stream. The bright sun shines harshly off her red hair, the intense color surprising me. In the Capitol I'm used to any color hair, but tributes and victors? Their tanned skin and plain faces are usually accompanied by muted browns, blacks, and yellows.

Brad lets out a grunt as Callide suddenly stops short at the bank of the stream. The wind blows at her bluntly cut hair and it whips against her pointed chin, the corners of her squinted, upturned eyes wrinkling as she takes the scene in front of her in. She's got angry, inflamed burns splashed across her skin and sweat pours dangerously from her forehead, yet she doesn't plunge into the cool stream below her. She just stares at the calm, slow-moving waters, finger to her lips as it sparkles in the afternoon sun.

Callide crouches down, flaming hair covering her face as the carefully picks up a fallen twig and drops it into the water. The arena trackers follow the twig through the air, and as it hits the water, the stream suddenly starts churning. The current picks up and swirls into large eddies, peaceful blue transformed to gushing white rapids rising above the muddy banks. A small tree growing near the stream bank is quickly snapped and carried away, joining the growing pile of of crushing logs and forest-floor brush clogging the waters. Callide squeals and trips back on her heels, water quickly rising past her ankles. A herd of deer charge away through the forest, away from the impending rapids, but Callide hesitates. Her sharp eyes survey the quickly-disappearing banks until she finds what she's looking for: a thin, long vine. In seconds she's dashing up a sturdy tree, vine in hand. As the waters wash over the base, she ties the vine securely around the small water skein she produces from her tiny pack and lowers it carefully into the melee below.

Bottle filled and pulled securely up to her perch, Callide smiles to herself. In minutes the rapids die down, slowly receding into the peaceful, gleaming stream it once was. She climbs down the tree and slinks back into the forest, her boots squelching in the newly-formed mud.

Next to me, Brad slams his empty glass onto the counter. "Know your enemies, that's what I always say."

I turn to him slightly and lift the corners of my lips, but my pulse is skidding too fast to tangle with words.

"You're with 12, right?" I jerk my head yes, my tongue dry in my mouth.

"Ahhh, Twelve... I thought they were going to be a challenge this year." He flicks a tiny remote at the screens and they switch to Katniss rocking and whimpering in her ditch. Another flick and Peeta is there, dangerously pale and moaning just as Katniss. I want to look away, but a tiny movement catches my eye. Almost imperceptibly, Peeta swirls his forefingers in the mud, patterns tracing out as he undergoes venom-induced nightmares.

"Drink?" Brad says, sliding a glass of murky liquid down the counter, grabbing himself another of the same kind. "It's made specially for District 2 this year. I hear it's quite popular on the streets."

I stare down into the yellow-tinted beverage, trying to avoid the impulse to dump it over the counter.

Peeta groans loudly from the screens and Brad smiles delightedly. "Won't be long now, eh?" He jabs his finger at the broken boy.

My blood boils unexpectedly and I jump up, surprised by the surge of protection I feel for the boy I've never met in person. "I have to—I have to be going, sir," I say, almost shoving the drink back into Brad's hands.

His lips only pull down for a moment before he palms the note slipped underneath the glass and slides it covertly into his pocket. As I walk away, I hear the shriek of a Games player as he clicks through the tribute channels, a grin tugging at his mouth as the boy from District 10 tries desperately to outrun a wild dog on the many screens.


	19. Red

The fiery-haired tribute follows me everywhere, a smoldering reminder of surprising hatred burning low at the back of my mind. From the middle of the dining hall, I catch glimpses of red flashing across the screens, a spark fading into the muted colors of the forest, only to reappear across the room, flitting across the screen and out of site again.

I take a deep breath and turn in a slow circle, trying to shed this layer of anger that sits uncomfortably atop my skin. In and out, in and out—my breath escapes into the world to the beat of running footsteps, steady but determined. I close my eyes and when I open them again, my sights land on the now vacated menu counter, fiery locks swishing quickly into the next tribute channel on the screen positioned above it.

My fingers move carefully over the menu board, skin sliding over the set and ordered type. I read each item twice, dragging slowly through time until I can feel my senses dull, the world once again sharper than what lays inside of me.

"Are you almost done with the counter?"

I look up slowly, my gaze sliding over the sleek black hair, jewel-encrusted skin, and calculating gray eyes of Ms. Satin Korvin.

"Oh yes, I'm terribly sorry," I mumble, highlighting an entrée from the middle of the list with the laser-controlled ordering pen and stepping quickly out of the way.

"It's quite alright." The corners of her mouth raise slightly in a polite smile before her eyes slide disinterestedly away, towards the menu list.

The quiet holds awkwardly in the air for a few moments before a pair of white-gloved hands slide a bowl in front of me, steam curling over the top. I look down to see a bright red curry, the sharp scent of spice thick in the air.

Suddenly a slight whistling carries through the air, and I look up just in time to see broth fly everywhere, a good amount splashed down the front of an alarmingly quiet Ms. Satin. The noise surrounding us immediately dies down, victors turning to watch the scene unfold. Ms. Satin carefully places her tray back onto the menu counter, her red lips a tight line.

"Whoops, I'm so sorry, Satin." Sal materializes in front of me, glancing back at the small knot of 4 and 7 victors behind her. "Didn't mean to hit you, we were just playing around," Sal laughs, lightly digging her elbow into Ms. Satin's side.

Ms. Satin doesn't say anything, just lifts a dripping plastic plate slowly out of her meal, lips set in a frown. Seeing this, Sal quickly rearranges her stance, taking a wide step back and dropping the smile from her face.

"Sorry, we were just throwing stuff around. Just playing around," Sal repeats, taking another step backwards.

Ms. Satin draws herself up, turning to Sal as she lifts an eyebrow disdainfully. "Just like you were only playing around when both your tributes died."

Sal's face immediately hardens, the roundness of her cheeks somehow transforming, her open and earnest façade erased in lieu of something more powerful. "You have no right to be saying those things," Sal says darkly.

"Don't I? You don't talk to me anymore. You're tributes can't even make it to the final eight." Ms. Satin's lips curl, her eyes flashing. "You've lost your touch," she says dismissively.

Sal leaps forward, shoving Ms. Satin against the counter as her hands clasp around Ms. Satin's neck. Dishes clatter to the floor as Satin pushes herself up the counter, bringing her knees up and kicking Sal as hard as she can in the gut. Sal backs up for a moment and Satin pushes off the counter, coming in for a hit to the chest. Sal sidesteps slightly and grabs Satin's arm, twisting her around until she inhales in a sharp gasp. "Don't you _ever_ talk about my kids like that. Don't you _ever_ treat the Games like this," Sal hisses.

Ms. Satin just laughs, her dark hair falling into her face. Sal pulls tighter but Satin twists out of her grasp, using her momentum to knock both of the victors to the floor. Satin digs her knees into Sal's arms, pinning her to the ground; she pulls back her fist and lands a punch, blood instantly spurting from Sal's nose. Sal yells and yanks her head forward, smacking Satin on the forehead and rolling on top of her. Sal has her hands encircled around Satin's neck again, blood dripping steadily down onto Satin's pale skin. "Get _off_ of me!" Satin screeches, thrashing her arms and legs. Sal just squeezes harder, blood mixing with the blonde falling into her face as she yells, "don't you _ever_ talk to me like that!"

Sal is still screaming as Finnick pulls her off of Satin, her voice reverberating off the high ceilings, blood dripping everywhere as she struggles to break free of Finnick's hold. Satin rolls over on the floor, gasping as air rushes back into her lungs. Sal continues to shout profanities until Brad finally takes Satin by the hand and hoists her off to the elevators, boots squeaking on the slick floors. The elevator doors slide shut and victors around the hall attempt to strike up forced conversation, just another drug to hold one another up until life's harshness fades back into the blur around them. In the corner, Finnick whispers softly into Sal's ear, holding her up steadily as she collapses in on herself.

I look down into the red bowl I've been clutching in my hands, the color matching the scarlet smeared across the floors underneath me.


	20. The Hunt

"Maren!"

The crush of feather-clad bodies parts for a moment, allowing a glimpse of waving arms and spiked, orange hair before converging again in squeals of delight. A pair of hands with flames stenciled up the arms seizes my wrist and pulls me through the crowd, leading my blindly to a small alcove off 12's lobby.

"Greets to you! I haven't seen you at a bash in years, what's been going on?" The man claps me on the back and I cough, a handful of feathers still sticking to the inside of my mouth. His eyes—surgically enlarged to the size of Capitol coins—widen even more as he looks me up head to toe.

"Oh, greets back to you," I say neutrally, clasping my hands behind my back, fingers curled inwards to hide the tiny square of paper tucked into my palm. The ridges in the paper scrape against my skin, the texture somehow rougher than the kind stocked in the Capitol. Woody had slipped it into my hands quietly in the confusion after the fight, gently pushing me towards the elevators. _Haymitch needs you now_, she had said, even as she retreated to Sal's side. The roughened note continues to chafe against my palm, the lesser 7 byproduct a reminder of the Districts scraping and clawing at the thoughts instilled at the base of my mind.

The man across from me suddenly gasps, leaning on the tips of his toes as he grins at the official airtime screen above me. I don't remember his face, but his stance—hands held slightly behind his bony frame, chin always tilted slightly down, even when he glances upwards—feels familiar to me. It's not until he brushes bright locks of orange hair from his forehead to get a better view that I recognize him. The jagged scar cutting across his forehead and into his hairline looks faded with creams and knock-off polish surgeries, but enough remains to show me a flash of the boy I used to host Games parties with every summer.

My skin crawls as Ezio turns his attention back to me, the sudden dip in my stomach bringing back garish memories of parties and cheers, excitement and enthusiasm. "You've certainly differed," he says, eying my simple uniform tunic, his gaze zeroing in on the Games insignia embroidered into the left lapel. The remark raises my eyebrows; I've never had enough money for surgeries, while almost none of Ezio's features are recognizable anymore. Aside from the enlarged eyes, his nose has shifted into beak-like territory and his cheeks have been sunken in further to mimic Micro, the District 3 victor. His teeth have been dyed red to match his new eye color in tribute to Micro's famous last fight: sinking his teeth into a tribute's hand until she was forced to drop her knife. I remember once watching the scene in amazement again and again, but now the color only reminds me of Anaya's venom-charged eyes after death.

"I guess I have…differed," I say, the subtle shift in party dialect sitting strangely on my untrained tongue.

"Are you costumed?" I shake my head slightly, taking a small step backwards. "You look like you're costumed as those convicted slave assistants," he insists, his mouth curving downwards in distaste.

"Oh yes. Yeah. We're playing a gag," I say quickly, taking another step back. "Let me just go find my—my gaggers." I wince at my failed attempt at guessing the new party words, finally backing up completely into the crowd. I see Ezio stare after me for a moment before a scream from the television above distracts him and he turns to watch open-mouthed.

Once more I am engulfed in the crowd of strangers all rooting for some new event on the screens. The bodies are covered in the scent of smoke, a perfume I'd have to guess trended with the events of the Games. The smell is overpowering, filling my head and bringing me back to the time in the virtual room, my heart rate picking up as my feet itch to run…

I finally break free from the crush of people, yanking open the control room doors and sagging against the clear glass from the inside, breathing heavily. After a moment reality seeps back into my system and I turn my attention to the room in front of me. I expect to find it deserted and silent, arena cameras trained on the still forms of the District 12 tributes. Instead, the wall screen is once again in motion, following Katniss as she slowly slinks through the forest, joints creaking rustily but hands steady on her bow and arrow.

"No. I'm sorry, but she's fine. She doesn't need it."

I turn to find Mr. Abernathy across the control room, gripping the telephone in anger as the voice on the other line picks up.

"I would be happy to take down a donation—" Mr. Abernathy says, an angry blush creeping up his neck. "No, I'm very willing—"

The voice on the other end increases in pitch, jumping from concerned to frantic.

"Sod off, then. And don't call or visit, you insolent fuck," Mr. Abernathy finally slurs, slamming the telephone into the receiver. "Get me some coffee," he barks, turning away from me, towards the wall screen.

I shrink into the corner, punching in the information for a shot of calmers in the next coffee batch. As the old machine beeps and whirls, I curl myself into the wall, watching Katniss hunt for the first time.

Her skin is yellowed and pulled tight around the sting marks, her singed hair stuck out of her braid in clumps. Her clothes are torn and her skin is smeared with a layer of sweat and grime; scrapes and bruises bloom on her limbs and torso. But despite the arena's makeover, she is beautiful. Her feet land delicately in the forest brush, sliding silently over the land. Her shoulders curve powerfully, arm extended gracefully with the bow as an extension of gorgeous strength. As she flits through the trees, the sinews of her form emanate out between the leaves. Her face is hard, determined: beautiful in the unreachable power beneath the curve of her lips, the harshness of her cheekbones.

And there is Mr. Abernathy beneath her, stumbling and broken, stooped under the struggle to carry on. But the clench of the jaw, the hardness emanating from behind the eyes, that brings them together. Together in the hunt to continue on, the glint of survival alive under the sullied Capitol veneer.

He watches the screen now, his chest rising and falling in reverse of Katniss; inhale the arena air and exhale the mentor's control. I bring him a glass of coffee, Woody's note pressed against the bottom of the cup. As he slips the paper between his knuckles he takes a step, left foot crossing over right as Katniss twists right over left. Mr. Abernathy rounds the donation table, slipping the note open between the electronic type as Katniss circles the base of a towering tree.

A wild dog barks in the distance and Katniss smoothly slips the bow over her shoulder, scaling a somber pine tree, pressing herself against a fork of branches. Her eyes peer over the rough bark, her braid slipping out between the limbs of the tree as she surveys the forest beneath her. A gray-haired beast runs in the distance, bounding past the girl folded quietly into the nook of her tree.

I notice the alcove the donation table is pushed into, the tiny space sunk into the walls, almost hidden from sight of the room. Mr. Abernathy breathes steadily, carefully, away from the monster that lurks in the shadows. His back is to me, spine lengthened and taut. His shoulders rise and fall; it's all I hear around me, in and out, in and out.

Katniss slips down from her tree, tredding silently over fallen leaves. Mr. Abernathy unfolds himself from his chair, the note quietly dissolving as he brings it to his mouth, disappearing in one swallow. He picks up the phone slowly, shoulders curved inwards as he carefully thumbs out the digits. The sound of the telephone rings tin-like across the line and a bird squawks in a cove of meadow next to the arena's stream.

"Hello?" Finnick's voice answers smoothly, deep and low and reassuring across wires and time.

Katniss slinks behind a tree, those gray eyes scanning the arrow's range with finesse.

"Turn to 12's tribute channel," Mr. Abernathy says into his mouthpiece. There's a pause, a state of delicate depth stretching across time.

"She's hunting."

Katniss plants her boots into the grass, feet spread true and stable across the ground.

"She's starting to hunt."

She lifts the bow into the air, arm extended in an unbroken line, held steady in perfect prowess.

"Is it time to donate for the hunt?" the low rumble of Finnick's voice washes into the arena.

Katniss breathes deeply, eyes narrowing until she's fixed her gaze on her shot.

"It's the beginning of our donation to the hunt."

The string pulls taut as Katniss pulls her arm back.

"Tell the Gamemakers we're ready to start."

The bow and arrow move as one with Katniss, rising and falling as she takes another steadying breath.

"I'll tell him," Finnick exhales.

"We start at noon." Mr. Abernathy breathes in.

The string releases and the arrow flies through the air, sticking cleanly at the heart. There's a flutter of wings and the squawk of danger; two more arrows whistle through the air, finding their mark at the center.

"We start with 7."

The birds have scattered, and in their place lay three dead, a single tear of blood dripping cleanly from the wounds. A small smile plays on Katniss's lips, one more link to her mentor.


	21. Johanna

"Haymitch!"

As I close the glass doors to the control room quietly behind her, Sow Grafsman extends her arms wide and enfolds Mr. Abernathy into her tall frame. They stand together for a few moments, Mr. Abernathy looking a tad uncomfortable, before he pulls away, giving her a deep look and then directing her in my direction.

"Sow, this is my sponsorship assistant. Maren. He's going to be very useful if our alliance goes well."

Sow looks me up and down, eyeing the last of the green dye still clinging to the ends of my hair before turning back to Mr. Abernathy.

"So this is him?" she says, not unkindly. Mr. Abernathy nods and she strides forward with a pleasant smile on her face, pumping my hand in hers. She grins wider as I curl my fingers around the rough paper of her note, tucking it into my tunic. "It's great to have you on the alliance."

I just nod and duck my head. "Thank you," she says, touching my wrist lightly before turning back towards Mr. Abernathy, towards a wallscreen devoted to Katniss and her tiny new ally, the young, dying boy forgotten and pushed aside altogether. _The nights have been freezing_, Katniss says softly in the background

"Okay. Donations. Do you have anything helpful for us?" Sow says, glancing towards our sponsor donation slips in the corner.

"Katniss has a tube of burn lotion, that should hold them over for now. They're well-off enough."

On screen, Rue holds up a small pair of paper-thin socks, her large eyes hurt and innocent as she says, "_I use these for my hands."_ I imagine Peeta, alone and buried in fear on the banks of neglected winter. I'm seized with the sudden urge to grab our donation slips by the handful, cashing in a warm blanket or a hot meal for the boy forgotten in the arena.

Mr. Abernathy leans back in his chair, the tips of his glasses tapping against his lips. "Maren," he finally says. "Go down to the City Circle and find Effie for us. She has news about donations." He turns away, back towards the wallscreen.

I nod, even as my mind floods with the picture of all those people crushed into the City Circle. I open my mouth to protest this, but there is Sow, watching me. The victor unnerves me, and quickly I turn away, back out into the lobby and towards the crystal elevator.

I punch in the button for ground floor, heart rate rising as I mentally sift through the City Circle and surrounding areas, trying to remember where sponsors and dealers such as Effie carry on. And what if she isn't even in the City Circle this time of day? I'm deep in thought, tracking through side alleys, and I don't notice the elevator doors sliding open smoothly in front of me.

"Are you just going to stand there?" a familiar voice lilts, and I jump about a foot in the air. There, leaning casually against the elevator's far wall, is Finnick Odair, hands in his pockets and grinning mockingly. Cheeks burning, I slip into the glass box, keeping my eyes on the floor.

"Haymitch said you were going to come help with the donations, but I didn't think you'd take this long."

I stare fixedly at the glass in front of me, District floors shooting past in a blur. As we pass Level 4, the lobby looks darkened and vacant.

"We've had some amount of good luck, though."

I turn to look at Finnick for the first time. "Effie says she's not going to be in the City Circle today."

It grows quiet for a moment and I open my mouth to say something, anything, but all that comes out is a squeak in the back of my throat.

"Yeah, it's too crowded for my taste, too," Finnick says with a dark look on his face.

Again, another quiet moment falls flat between us. As I watch Finnick pull down his eyebrows in thought, I see the darkened Level 4 behind my eyes again.

"Fi—" I stop to clear my throat and he looks up. "Finnick. Why do you still work at Headquarters if you don't have to anymore this year?"

His eyes grow dark and muscle ripples under his skin and I'm afraid I've said the wrong thing, I'm shrinking in on myself as he reaches his arm forward—

"It's better than being out there," he says, running his hand down his cheek as the elevator doors slide open and we're dumped out into the churning mass of the City Circle. 

* * *

After a half-hour and countless women piling themselves around Finnick, we've finally made it out of the worst of the Circle and into one of the twelve District Alleys. Alley 11, to be exact. Vendors up and down the street holler out their offers, long lists of sweet-smelling fruits and delicious warm grains filling the alley. Next to me, Finnick points and calls out into the crowd.

"Effie!"

She spots me and walks at a fast clip, still beaming at everyone she passes by. Her cheeks look pulled so tight I feel the ache reflected back in my own face. Just another price to pay, jumping hoops for every Capitol resident under the sun.

"Oh, hello dear. I've been meaning to make it back up to Level 12. How is Haymitch holding up? I've got oodles more sponsors lined up, I hope they contribute. I saw we were in a new alliance! Let me just get some offers for Katniss and Rue I have here..."

She finally breaks for air as she rummages around in the sling-like pockets of fabric woven into her dress. More people call out to her as we stand in the Alley, and every time, she pauses to smile and greet them, ask about any sponsors they'd like to undergo. Finnick begins to fidget, but I remain still, amazed by the amount of effort being put into the sponsorships this year.

"I'm sorry, here you are, waiting, and I'm holding you up. I've talked to one of the victors from 11, oh, what was her name? Long dark hair, brown eyes, pretty short. Anyway, she was able to gather a nice donation from Rue's District, how lovely, no? I guess she got permits for Districts to mail in, but here's some of it. She said not to spend it yet, she knows exactly what she wants to get Rue."

Effie holds out her hand, offering a slim envelope, and I move to trade the note Mr. Abernathy gave me for the envelope in one smooth motion. But Finnick suddenly springs forward, knocking my arm back in an attempt to reach the envelope first.

"I've got it, Effie. It's no problem," he says smoothly.

"Oh." Effie's eyes narrow considerably. "Hello, Finnick. I haven't seen you out and about in a while." Finnick just shrugs, an amiable smile painted across his face.

"But do take care of this," she says to me with a bit more warmth. "I've worked so hard these past years and it's so nice finally seeing some improvement in my job. Goodness knows Haymitch never tried to help out here."

"Really," Finnick says, his tone flat.

"He's been helpful enough with Katniss this year. But I've seen him holed up in that dingy top level, drinking whenever he can. Unprofessional, if you ask me." She stops a moment to wipe her suddenly wet eyes with bright pink fingernails. "The kids this year are just so polite. So nice. And I want to give Peeta help too. He's charming, really." Another Capitol citizen waves at Effie across the street and she visibly straightens, her eyes instantly clear.

"Well, donations won't make themselves," she says, and with that, Effie makes a hasty goodbye and clacks away, greeting every person she sees along the way.

"Come on," Finnick says as he watches her go, and he takes off. We walk down the Alley 11 for a bit before a sudden detour, and I almost step on Finnick's heels, he stops so abruptly.

"What are you..." I murmur, even as Finnick grabs for a run-down looking pair of pants and shirt. The kind the vendors on District's Alleys sell so we can pretend to be potential tributes on Reaping Day.

"Blending in with the natives." He pulls a hat covered in vines with tiny fruits on them over his head, a knockoff of the original Rue and Thresh wore at the Opening Ceremonies. On his face, he sticks on the adhesive stubble made to imitate Thresh's facial hair. In the blink of an eye, he's out of his shiny victor wear and into the play clothes, all the District 11 wear transforming him into the old, worn-down slaves I see on television.

"Aren't you going to pay for that?" I ask bewilderingly.

He shrugs and tosses a few coins to the astonished vendor, giving him a coy wink. Then he's dragging me across the Alley and out into the rest of the Capitol, the both of us suddenly invisible in the crowd of animated and celebrating city.

Twenty minutes later I'm standing in front of the entrance to the elite Cloud Hotel, a lounge and room service so decadent and expensive I've never known anyone who can afford to reside in its lair. I've seen the commercials for it everywhere; I've spent years dreaming of stepping inside the mysterious, plush land of the rich. I'm reminded of who I am really in the company of as Finnick strolls nonchalantly through the double doors and up to reception. Halfway there, he gestures for me to follow, but still I only stand in the very doorway, gazing up, mouth agape, at the crafted white clouds bobbing in the breeze above me.

The receptionist murmurs a demure welcome and Finnick plunks a handful of coins onto the desk. "I'm to meet the victor Johanna here." He leans in towards the receptionist, his lips curled in a leer. "We're going to have a very special meeting."

The young girl just quietly hands him a room card and points to the elevators. Finnick strides quickly towards them and I trail behind helplessly, glancing back nervously to find the receptionist's eyebrows slightly raised.

As we shoot up higher, higher, higher, Finnick strips off his disguise, shedding a life with each story we climb. Almost too quickly we come to a smooth stop, sleek silver doors gliding open to show that gentle, foamy white floor. "Cloud 7," Finnick sighs indifferently, if not a tad bit disgustedly. I can't understand his disdain—I want to jump into the mass of calming fluff, run my hands over the soft, inviting furniture. Even the couches, the chairs, the tables are crafted of the artificial cloud, sculpted into a magnificent display of floating royal repose.

Finnick takes off for the door, gliding across the lobby, flying through the bobbing opulence. He's knocking on the door, a funny little beat that sounds entirely too intricate for a hotel door. Nobody answers. As he waits there, impatiently tapping his thighs, I venture my first step into this lovely new world. At first my foot sinks into the silken fluff, my stomach dropping a bit as the walls and sky dip lower. But then it floats back up, the floor supportive yet airy under my soles. Another step and I'm peculiarly sinking again, only this time I smile. It feels like I'm floating as one with the open sky around me, in and out, in and out, as the crafted clouds above and below dance with me. I want to jump from each puff to the next, but the exacerbated look on Finnick's face restrains me. Carefully, I float my way shakily behind him, peering up at the ornate door, the opaque white walls.

Finnick is raising his fist to knock again when suddenly a voice calls from inside the room and the walls turn almost translucent, little wisps floating here and there in the structure. Inside, one large bed dominates the room across from the darkened screen of an impressively-sized television. The furniture here too is crafted of the same soft material, but it's the lone figure sprawled out in the middle of the room that calls my attention.

She's laying flat on her back, sunken into the white cushion, hands knotted into her short, disheveled hair. An empty bottle lies just out of reach of her fingertips.

"Johanna!" Finnick says, already jogging towards the victor splayed out on the ground.

"Oh, calm down Finnick," she drawls, slowly dragging her arms out horizontally. The movement reminds me vaguely of making bird wings in the snow.

Finnick slows to a stop right next to the girl, the tips of his feet almost touching her skin. "Is anyone here to listen to you talk to yourself?"

Johanna snaps her arms to her sides. "Nope. Nobody can hear us. Who would think of something terrible happening in such a high-class place? Darken." This last part is directed to the room; the walls transform from translucent back to opaque. "Close."

There's a loud beeping from above my head, the tinted door trying to jam closed while I still stand in the doorway. "Close!"she says with a hint of irritation now. I manage to make it in before the door slams into me again.

"Finnick, it looks like you've brought someone who works for the Capitol into my room." Her voice is frighteningly calm.

"He works under Haymitch. Seeing as there's so much rebel information flowing in and out of Haymitch's sight, he thought an undercover would help pass things along."

"Mmmm," Johanna just mumbles. Finnick reaches out a hand to help her to her feet, but she ignores it.

"He's got a note for you."

"Really." She springs up now, striding forward until she's right in my face. "Let's have it then!"

I fumble in my pocket, trying to produce it from inside the many folds in my tunic. Before I can pull it out, though, she moves in closer, almost nose to nose.

"Are you just going to do anything I say then? Are you?" she demands, and I'm taken aback.

"I..."

"Just doing anything the person with the most power tells you, huh?"

I take a step back, fear dropping in my stomach.

"Johanna—"

"Are you even going to talk? Stand up for yourself?" I take another worried step back but she shoves me in the chest, not very hard, but enough to catch me off guard and send me sprawling to the soft floor.

"Johanna!" Finnick snatches her before she takes another step closer, pulling her towards the bed, moving to sit her down on the silky sheets. She just fights her way out of his grip, pushing Finnick down onto the spread.

"Do you trust one of them now, Finnick?"

He takes a deep breath. "Haymitch trusts him."

"Now we're trusting Haymitch, then?" She paces the floor in front of Finnick, fists clenched, shoulders back.

"What else can we do, Johanna?" He looks so beaten down, face drawn, far from the philander gallivanting across my television screens for years.

"Something different! We've tried this before. We tried staging dissent in the Districts. Do you know what that got me?" Finnick remains silent. "It got all the people I cared about killed. Just for trying to tell my home what it's really like at the Capitol every year. Everyday."

"I'm sorry—"

"When is sorry ever enough? Why should I have put the people I love at risk for sheep that can't even take an opportunity to rise against all of this!" She spreads her arms across the room, gesturing to it all: the expense of opulence.

"We shouldn't have to do that."

"We did have to. What are you going to do, Finnick? What are you going to do when push comes to shove and you're going to have to sacrifice your parents for a 'greater good.' Or Annie?"

The corners of Finnick's mouth pull down and he rests his elbows on his knees, cradles his head in his hands. "She's safe. I come back every year—I get sold—because I hope they're all safe for another summer."

"We're never safe."

"But Johanna, don't you see? If we do this now, nobody else has to decide like this—like us—ever again. We can change it."

"Change only works if we're all willing to accept the consequences. Nobody is willing back in 7. Who would be willing here? Here, where they all stuff themselves full with murder and misery."

"It's not all like that here." I find myself talking before I can stop to think about. Both Johanna and Finnick turn to stare at me, and I'm already shrinking back into the shadows, the corner where nobody will have to see me.

"It's not all like what here?" Johanna says deliberately.

I take a deep breath, forcing myself to ease out of the darkness. To finally make the decision of who I want to hurt more in this world. "Not everyone is so rich and so accepting in the Capitol. There are so many of us. And so many that are backed up in debt, clawing for a way out. They make most of us work as near-slaves for them, but—"

"Wait a second." Johanna holds up a hand, collapsing onto the bed beside Finnick. She turns to him, voice set. "They stock all of the people like him, this assistant slave, in a place so close to their enemies. All packed together, looking for some form of vengeance." She enunciates each word clearly, pausing to look over at me for confirmation. I hesitantly nod yes.

"Can we use them, then? Just build an army out of the monsters we're all made into. Do you have one of these assistant things on your Level?"

Finnick shakes his head slowly. "No... but I know Level 7 does."

Johanna just shrugs. "I can't help you, Finnick. I don't know the kid. I never bothered to sit through another Games like that. They can't make me anymore."

"It doesn't have to be about them forcing us anymore."

Johanna lets out a long sigh. "I don't have anything left, Finnick." She looks down at her fingers knotted together. "Do you know what that's like?"

"No."

We sit in silence for long minutes, not even the wind whistling through the arena mics to break the heavy air.

"I'll do it for the damned Quell," Johanna finally spits out. "Just to see the looks on the Capitol's faces."

"Johanna—"

"Now get out."


End file.
